Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit or LOTR. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is the first time writing this pairing, or indeed either of the characters, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. This is an Elrond/Lindir fic set sometime previous to the Hobbit in terms of timeline.

Warnings: Expect slash, canon appropriate violence, angst, mature language, blood, guts, gore, adult babies dealing with their feelings, mild sexual content, hurt/comfort.

Take that rage (and sing it loud)

He fell backwards, flipping cleanly over the back of his mount as an arrow scored across his cheek. He landed in a crouch, a lithe tangle of rippling pale green silks - his circlet of office askew on his brow as the blare of an orc horn muted the forest still.

He jerked himself upright, feeling the sting of scored flesh on his left cheek, raising his head just in time for a surprised cry to curdle across his tongue. Forced to watch as the second arrow took down his mare. He recoiled, tasting blood on his tongue as the black arrow caught Alqua in mid-baulk, rearing in front of him protectively with a whinnying scream as the arrow plunged deep into her neck – falling beside him in a spray of dirt and lather.

His silks hindered his movements, making it appear as though he was the forest made flesh as he curled himself safely behind Alqua's bulk. He felt the life leave her as he raised his head, sparing a second to mourn the loss of a dear companion before keen eyes swept across the would-be battlefield.

The dwindling host of his Lord's guard was engaging the archers that'd fired on him. Long blades slicing and cleaving, whirling like liquid star-light as naked steel reflected the early morning sun. But they were outnumbered and their enemy was one with vicious intent. Loosing their Wargs on those trying to flee back to their horses, howling in triumph as they hunted them through the long grass.

He could not see him.

His Lord had been fighting so fiercely only a second ago, armor dented and stained.

He'd seen as much with his own eyes.

The morning fires of Imladris had not yet been lit when word of a small orc pack closing in on their eastern border reached the sentries. And like he often did, his Lord Elrond rode out to meet them, taking with him a modest company of riders. More than enough to chase off a rogue pack of urqui.

He had been untroubled. More perturbed than anything that his Lord had refused to break his fast before setting out. Pausing only long enough to let him fuss with buckles of his armor, Hadhafang firm in his grip as the ellon's riding silks rippled through the door in his wake. His haste the only sign of the eagerness that lingered underneath. Emotions and drives that his Lord carefully suppressed until he had need of them.

He had long supposed that it was Peredhil in him. The Mannish blood that flowed through his veins, lending credence to the excitement he often displayed in such times. The occasional need for aggression – nay, the desire for it – that usually led to his Lord returning in a flurry of mud and blood-splattered hair, smelling of horse and wilder things as he clattered down the main bridge and circled off to the stables. Always a fierce, if not rather pleased, look upon his face when he returned.

But, as he was with everything, he was long accustomed to his Lord's habits and the baser pleasures he seemed to glean from them. Such as wielding a sword rather than the seal of his great house when there was little cause for the Lord of Imladris to take up arms. So, he kept his displeasure at the ignored plate of fruit and olive-stuffed flat-bread to a minimum as the older ellon swept out of his rooms. Calling orders to his lieutenants as the morning rays swept over the hidden valley of his forefathers.

He'd been in the stables, finishing business with the Master of Horse. Seeing to the re-shoeing of Súletál – his Lord's favourite mount – when word reached them of another sighting. This one larger in number and moving fast in the shadow of the first. Displaying the severed heads of two of their most outlying sentries – newly bonded pair – on pikes at the front of their company.

Not for more than an age had the filth of Melkor been so bold.

Nor their foul deeds so costly.

But there had been no other choice than to push away his grief. Burying the uncharacteristic surge of anger and helplessness that rose when he remembered dancing at their wedding feast. Singing in time as the couple weaved the binding cloth between them, displaying their marriage braids proudly as Lord Elrond gave them his blessing. Calling for a night of wine and celebration as the clouds parted and the stars shone brightly overhead.

There had been no time to summon a rider. Someone more versed in the darker arts than he. The threat to his lord was too great to suffer any delay. He had simply given orders for the entire guard to assemble and ride out, and left the rest in capable hands. He caught the dagger and sheath the sentry tossed him, swinging himself onto Alqua's back without pause, deaf to the protestations of the horse master as the words "armor" and "ill-prepared" flowed over him like water upon rock.

In truth he hadn't thought once. The fear that'd sparked through him when the sentry had clattered down the steps – a hastily scrawled missive near crushed in his hand - had been cold. A deadly winter sharp he had not felt the like of in all his years.

His Lord was in danger.

All else had simply paled in comparison.

He had intended to catch his Lord's company before they engaged the enemy. Hoping to reach them in time with the news so they could pull back and wait for reinforcements. But instead, he'd burst through the dense brush - into a low-lying clearing he remembered well from his youth - and squarely into an orc ambush.

He shrugged out of his outer robes, letting the green silk pool at his feet as he cast his gaze across the clearing, searching for that distinctive bronzed armor as one by one, his kin were felled.

The pommel of the borrowed dagger dug into his side as he left the safety of Alqua's still form. Reminding him of just how ill-prepared he was, how out of his depth, as he crouched low, stepping over the bodies of orc and elf – splashed with blood and barely recognizable in the dew as steam rose from cooling bodies.

He ducked, sheltering in the sun-burnt grass as a group of orcs advanced on his position, scenting the air suspiciously, crude bows humming with tension as the tips of his long hair kissed the warm earth.

He must not be seen!

He drew the blade with nerveless fingers, taking small comfort in the sound it made as somewhere across the field, a shield-maiden let go of horrible, keening cry. Falling from her horse as an orc axe buried itself deep in her spine.

He waited for a smattering of beats before parting the grass before him. Holding the dagger in front of him cautiously, free hand assuming the defensive position – palm open and level with his shoulders – the same stance the weapon masters had taught him when he'd been young.

The orcs had turned away, staring off at a point in the distance he could not-

There!

He nearly cried out in relief when he spotted him through the fray. The Elf Lord was hemmed in by close to two dozen of the foul creatures, the ground around him piled high with his foes as Hadhafang sliced and slashed. Even now - especially now - bloody and sprayed with dirt, he was nothing short of magnificent. Every movement like liquid. As though he were parting the air around him, shivering through sky and sunlight with a delicacy that seemed almost out of place every time his sword found its mark.

But he was outnumbered.

And alone.

He felt his expression change. Shifting into something he did not recognize as the hilt of the dagger bit into his palm. Heartbeat a heady, base-line thrum as he rose. The angles of his face catching the sun's glare as his lips thinned, pulling back the slightest of bits to bare the blunt line of his teeth.

No, not alone.

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There is more to come, so please stay tuned! There will be four chapters, all generally the same length and will be updated twice a week until complete.

Reference:

"Alqua" – Is the Sindarin word for 'swan'. Originally I intended to go into more depth about Lindir's relationship with his horse, but it didn't fit into the natural flow of the story. So, at least in short, I will mention the intent behind the name. Lindir, at least in my head canon, it more of a gentle soul than a warrior. He prefers music and song and politics and thus, his mount is one that was chosen to reflect the inherent gentleness I see in him. But the thing about swans, is that while they are beautiful and graceful creatures, they are also fiercely protective and – ahem – territorial.

"Ellon" – term for a male Elf.

"Imladris" – is the Elvish name for 'Rivendell.'

"Urqui" – plural of orcs. Used in reference to describing an orc pack. Is also an elvish word that harkens back to definitions for "demon" and "monster."

"Súletál" – elvish name meaning 'Wind Foot.'

"Hadhafang" – the name of Lord Elrond's sword which he wields in The Hobbit/BOFA/Prologue of LOTR. It is a sword meant to be used from horseback. Arwen is seen using it in LOTR in the scene with Frodo and the Ringwraiths.

"Peredhil" – Meaning 'half-elven'. Relating to Elrond's heritage.