minstrel

+3

You shot me and I apologized for getting blood on your carpet.

"Ah," Thranduil replied, the lack of interest he displayed forcefully faked. He did, in fact, very much desire to know what the many things were, that Lindir had heard and it was remarkable, for his interest and curiosity were not sparked as lightly anymore, as they had been thousands of years ago, when the world had been new and full of wonders, full of light to discover instead of shadows to hide from.       Not everything the other elf had heard could be good. Thranduil even doubted most of it was, knowing the attitude other elves had towards the elves of the woodland. Surely, though, Lindir would leave out all the parts that were controversial. "You certainly heard right. About the wine, that is. We prefer the ground to dance on.” Not that nobody had ever danced on anything but the ground, but Lindir did not need to know, nor was it as bad as the elf lord surely thought it was. Their parties were more cheerful, less forcefully serene, less semblance and more substance. A fine smile appeared on Thranduil’s features, stringing the information Lindir offered together to paint a picture of the most delicate colors. Realizing Lindir had revealed he had never tasted the wine and that he was not good holding his liquor, the Elvenking wondered why he had chosen this path for himself. Surely, he could not judge the wine’s taste, if he had never tried. A pity.       And while his sensitivity to alcohol could clearly be an exaggeration, the fact he had never tasted Dorwinion was a miracle.       “So, does that mean you have never tasted my wine? Not once, all the times I sent some to the lords and ladies of Imladris?” Offense, suggested where there was none, purely for his benefit, colored his voice. And so he turned and reached for a glass, he had left standing on the balcony, to extent it towards Lindir.           What feast would it have been, if he had found himself without something proper to drink, even if he found himself alone outside and beneath the stars?       “Please, allow me to offer some wine of my own.” Thranduil did not share with everyone and he certainly did not share from his own cup. The Elvenking was certain, Lindir would realize it could be seen as offense now, if he was to reject, as much as he was certain that the elf would not suffer negative consequences from one sip of wine.

Getting offered a glass of wine was one thing. Getting offered the king's glass of wine a different thing entirely. It was not something Lindir could ever dream of declining. He might as well draw one of the guard's swords that had been positioned by the doors out of their sheaths and stab himself, it would spare him the shame of having Elrond reprimand him. Elrond had never, Elrond would never. Lindir made certain of that. It occured to him now that revealing his lack of practise when it came to drinking was not a wise move. He should have known that the elvenking would salt any wound he might find. He was in the position to. Lindir had to admit to himself that he too would mock those who shared not the noble rank. 

The white stones of the king's rings reflected the shimmer. Lindir would be lavishing himself with jewels as well, if he were a king, but he was a minstrel, no matter if noble-born. He was not to outshine the lords and ladies in their silks and furs. It was a shame really, they sometimes gifted him with rings of rubies and sapphires, and ornate daggers, none of which he ever used. He had no need for weapons, knew not how to wield them, disliked the thought of roughening his soft fingers meant for more delicate things.