"Lindir!" A perhaps familiar cry from the front of Rivendell's gates, as Haldir beckoned to him. "Please can you help me? Someone has put sticky sap on our saddles, and, well--" Thoroughly put out, Haldir was stuck to the saddle of his horse, no matter how much he tried to wriggle free. "If this was Elladan and Elrohir..."
Lindir is not dressed for guests; he wears only a loose fitting tunic and breeches, and his unbraided hair flits in the gentle summer breeze. A pile of paperwork for which he is responsible sits beneath a paperweight beside the tree that he has been working under. On a day like this, it would be a terrible shame not to enjoy the weather, even if he does have duties to complete.
Ears perking at the sound of his own name, he rises quickly, putting the lid on his inkpot so that it is not spilled. His bare feet are silent against the stone floor as he makes the short distance between where he had been sitting and the gates - it is talking distance for an Elf (though perhaps not for polite conversation), but mortal ears would not have heard Haldir’s words from such a length. “I think that quite impossible, mellon,” he says, coming up to stand in front of Haldir’s mount and offering his hand for the horse to sniff. “They left for another of their hunting trips three days ago. I do not think their magic is that strong, do you?”
Cause of it aside, Lindir does not know quite what to do in such a situation, but the ridiculousness of such a predicament is too much for him to panic in any sort of serious way. A light chuckle rises from the back of his throat, and he smiles serenely, tilting his head up towards his old friend. “Come, to the saddles, perhaps we will find a solution for you there.”
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