Lúthien's Gift

Title: Lúthien’s Gift
Author: Tuxedo Elf
Rating: R
Pairing: Lindir/Thranduil
Beta: Eni
Summary: For one night a year, a song has power.
Notes: This was written for the Halloween challenge on the Lindir yahoo group. Um, it’s a bit late…

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There was not an Elf who could not feel it. Even the youngest child, though they might not understand it, knew that something was different tonight. The air was thick with deep mist, broken only by beams of pale light from the almost obscured moon. There were few voices heard and those that spoke were hushed, none wishing to break the spell that some unseen power had woven about the wood.

It should have been an oppressive atmosphere, yet somehow there was a feeling of joyful anticipation that seemed at odds with the almost grim setting. Elves hurried down candlelit corridors, smiles on their faces, and rooms were decked out in garlands made of fallen leaves and late-autumn fruits. Many a table was set for a glorious feast, the hosts only waiting for their guests to arrive.

As the moon reached its peak, complete silence fell. Not even a leaf dared to fall as the mist shifted into gentle swirls and the night was claimed by the lost.

Then, the silence was broken as a clear voice, raised in song, cut through the stillness. The mists parted in its wake and then cleared completely, revealing the sky full of stars and a magnificent full moon. Still no other voice was heard, as the singer welcomed the guests to the celebrations, guests whose coming was awaited eagerly each year.

For tonight was the night of the spirits, the one day in each year when Námo relented, allowing the fallen to take form for a few hours and rejoin their loved ones. Legend said that the festival had started with Lúthien; that the compassion he had found for her plight had never truly left the Lord of the Dead and that was why he allowed these brief reunions. For this reason, in memory of Lúthien and in honour of the gift she had given them, the lost were always welcomed with a song.

As the haunting melody rose and fell, pale forms began to appear through out the wood. In the trees, in the houses and in all the places where their loved ones had spent time and were now waiting for them.

As the song began to fade, so too did the silence and in its place, the sound of joyful tears and laughter filled the air. Fires were lit, casting away the dim shadows and filling the whole wood with light as celebrations both public and private got underway, none caring to squander these precious few hours.

In the uppermost rooms of the palace, the singer finally ceased his song. His job was done, the lost had been found and his own night could now begin.

“Beautiful, as always.”

Lindir turned, smiling at Thranduil standing so close beside him. “Thank you… though it is a pleasure and an honour to welcome them back each year. It is only right that they receive the best greeting I can give.”

Thranduil pulled Lindir close, his arm holding tightly to the more slender minstrel. Centuries ago, Lindir had left the safety of his home in Imladris for the dangerous paths of Mirkwood, in order to be with his lover. It was a sacrifice Thranduil had never forgotten and on this, a night of family, love and completion, it seemed exceptionally special.

“You have greeted them wonderfully,” he said softly. “Now come and join the celebrations.”

Lindir nodded and allowed himself to be guided from the room, Thranduil’s arm still comfortably about his shoulders.

They walked down the wide, garland-decked corridors, into the main feasting hall where a merry sight greeted them. Great tables laden with food were set along the walls and at the far end, cheerful music was played by Elves with flutes, harps and lutes. Some Elves danced and sang, while others sat at the great wooden benches, taking animatedly with their companions, trying to fit a year’s worth of news into a single night. There was so much life and laughter that it was nearly impossible to tell which of them would be gone come morning. Only a slight pallor to their skin separated the visiting spirits from the living.

He drank in the scene before him like a fine wine, picking out the guests from experience and memory. Walking slowly through the room, he wandered past groups of Elves, greeting them if he was noticed and smiling in amusement if he was not.

In the corner of the room, his gaze fell on a particular group. Their clothes were not as fine as some, though they were clean and well-kept and their laughter seemed more raucous than most others’. They were a large group, mostly male and almost evenly divided between living and dead. These were, or had been, some of the Kingdom’s most dedicated warriors. Most of them did not have blood kin in these lands, but had built their own family amongst their fellow guards.

Thranduil knew that theirs had not been an easy path. The ‘family’ was forever growing and diminishing, bringing joy and heartache in equal measure. Some of those visiting tonight had been amongst the living just the year previously; their loss was still a raw wound and their brief return even more welcome. Were it not for the manner of their dress they would not seem like hardened warriors, such was the affection shown so freely amongst them.

“It is always such a heartening sight,” Lindir said as he took a goblet of wine from a table. “It is a shame it is just one night.”

“Aye, it is,” Thranduil agreed, “though one day, it will be permanent.” As he spoke, his eyes moved to rest on a nearby elleth, who laughed and joked with the warrior next to her; a friend of her husband’s. Her husband, who had died in battle some centuries previously, was not present this year. Yet it was not cause for sadness, but rather for joy, for it meant that he had been reborn and would be waiting for her when she took ship to the Undying Lands.

Lindir smiled; Thranduil’s optimism was something he had always admired. It had kept him strong for many years and would doubtless serve him well for many more yet. Oh, it had faltered on occasion, yet it always returned. “That will indeed be a glorious day,” he replied, “one well worth waiting for. Yet until then, I remain grateful for the gift of this night, for there are many here whose own lives may have been spared because of it.” Indeed, the yearly reunions had kept many a grieving soul from Námo’s cold, grey halls.

“Then let us show our gratitude and make merry,” Thranduil said, handing Lindir another goblet of wine. “I would not have Námo think that there is an Elf here who is not making the most of this gift!” Not even giving Lindir chance to finish his drink, he pulled the minstrel onto the dancing square, casting dignity aside as he dragged them both into the wild dance that many others were already enjoying.

A little stunned, but not objecting, Lindir just managed to place the goblet on the table before he found himself trying to keep up with the beat of the music as well as his exuberant lover. He laughed – it was good to see Thranduil so happy.
He worried about him – death and darkness had plagued the kingdom for so many years, he feared it had cast a shadow on the King’s spirit. Yet on this night he had no doubt - this night all was well.

The minstrel’s laughter echoed through out the hall as he was spun round and round, in and out of his lover’s arms, until he was quite giddy. “Stop!” he cried at last, dragging Thranduil to a halt, “before I quite forget which way is up!”

Smiling indulgently, Thranduil ceased dancing and pulled Lindir close. “Perhaps it is time we left for a more private dance?” he asked teasingly.

“I would like that,” Lindir murmured, leaning into the King’s embrace. He made a small noise of contentment as Thranduil wrapped an arm about him and led him from the hall.

They returned swiftly to their rooms, closing the heavy oak door firmly behind them. No sooner was it shut and bolted than Thranduil lifted his lover’s face to his, kissing him deeply. Lindir sighed happily as the kiss became more intense and Thranduil’s hands started tugging at his robes. He slid eagerly out of his clothing, kicking the fine material away like waste before assisting the King with his own garments until they were both nude, their bodies already responding to each other.

Taking the minstrel’s hand, Thranduil pulled him onto the bed, covering the slender body with his own and planting a trail of kisses down Lindir’s pale neck. Lindir whimpered in delight and wrapped his arms around Thranduil, silently pleading for more.

The King obliged, shifting so that he could kiss his way down Lindir’s waiting body, making his lover squirm in pleasure. He paused when he reached Lindir’s hard arousal, teasing it softly for a moment before taking it into his mouth and suckling gently.

“Oh!” Lindir cried out in pleasure, his hips rising eagerly as he tried to push deeper into Thranduil’s mouth, seeking to increase the sensations his lover was giving him.

The King took the moment, letting the hard flesh slip from his mouth as he raised Lindir’s legs to rest on his own shoulders. Quickly yet carefully, he prepared him, all the while murmuring soft endearments, soothing the now frustrated minstrel.

Another moment and Thranduil was inside the welcoming body, breathing deeply as his own arousal was enveloped by the tight heat. “Lindir,” he whispered, gazing down at his lover as he slowly began to move, rocking them back and forth in an erotic rhythm.

Lindir held tightly to the blankets as their passion intensified, his lips parted in unspoken passion. There were no words for the depth of his feelings and he gave thanks that actions spoke far more clearly than anything he could ever say.

As they fell further into their passion, Thranduil’s hand found Lindir’s arousal and he stroked it hard in time with their movements. Climax was swiftly approaching and Thranduil was determined that they should reach it together.

Both names mingled in the air as release was finally found, warm seed spilling in and on their joined bodies. Dual cries of passion and desire faded into breathless moans, as King and Minstrel came down from the heights of pleasure to sink into each other’s arms.

“I love you,” Thranduil said softly, smiling tenderly at Lindir, “always.”

Lindir reached out, caressing Thranduil’s face. “As I love you.”

The words said, they lay for a time in silence, content to enjoy the embrace, their love no less for the lack of spoken words. It was enough to simply enjoy each other’s presence.

Hours passed, in which soft touches brought further pleasures and teasing words brought quiet peals of laughter. Neither slept, for this was a precious night, not to be wasted. Indeed, Thranduil doubted if any Elf above their majority slept tonight.

Yet at last the inevitable dawn approached and Thranduil felt the warm body start to cool in his arms. He turned, slowly, reluctantly, to face his lover. As he expected, Lindir’s form was slowly fading, as was the joy in Thranduil’s eyes and heart.

“It never gets easier,” he said, his voice near breaking.

Leaning forward, Lindir kissed him, though he no longer held enough form to make it be truly felt. “I know… nor for me. Yet we both know that one day we will be reunited for good.”

Thranduil nodded, not taking his eyes off Lindir, fearing to miss a single moment of his presence. So many years had passed since that fateful day. He had never forgotten how thrilled he had been when Lindir had agreed to leave his home in Imladris for a life with him. Yet they had never shared a life, for Lindir and his escort had been attacked as they approached the kingdom and Lindir had taken a fatal dose of poison from a spider. Despite the best efforts of the Mirkwood healers, he had died before he had even spent a night in his new home.

Since that day, Thranduil’s only hope had been this night, the one night in every year when his sorrow could leave him. He treasured it above all else and would have given his all to make it last forever. Yet he did not have that power and so had to be content with what he had, as well as the knowledge that they would one day have their last parting.

However, that day had not yet come, and he watched with growing sadness as Lindir’s body faded into nothing. He knew he was granted more time than most. As a minstrel and lover of the King, Lindir was granted the gift of returning first, so that his song could call the others home. Yet it still hurt to lose him each time.

“Until next year,” Lindir whispered, bestowing one last smile upon Thranduil before he faded completely, taken back to Lord Námo’s halls.

“Until next year,” Thranduil repeated, though there was no one to hear him now.

Once again, he was alone.

END