This is my first attempt at fanfiction, following the guidelines states at

Summary: Frodo Baggins meets Lindir and learns there is more to the minstrel than meets the eye.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I believe that distinction goes to JRR Tolkein and Peter Jackson.

The bench was too high for Frodo Baggins. His feet swung an uncomfortable distance above the ground; logical, he supposed, considering the bench was built for elves twice his height. Rivendell was beautiful, but it was quite impractical for a hobbit.
Although, Frodo wasn’t entirely sure he would mind staying in the elfin city for at least a little while longer. He had an inkling his stay would be extended at least a week more than Gandalf had originally said. Even though he had been relieved of the Ring, there were whispers behind closed doors which made Frodo think everything was not quite alright. Gandalf and Elrond would want to ensure the hobbits’ safety before allowing them to return home.
Frodo sighed, jumping slightly as he noticed a figure standing next to him. It was an elf. A dark-haired elf of the House of Elrond, but one who looked slightly familiar. The elf held a lute in his left hand.
Ah, yes, Frodo realised. It was the minstrel from last night’s feast. Londor, or Lindt, or…
“Lindir,” said the elf, extending a hand. Frodo took it hesitantly. “Frodo Baggins.”
“I know.” The elf’s voice was musical. Almost as Frodo would have imagined an elf’s should be. “There has been much talk of you, of late.”
“I am sorry to be the cause of any disturbance in Rivendell.”
“You are not the cause. If anything, you should be commended on your efforts.” Lindir’s words were forceful, and Frodo suspected he had just finished an argument. On what, Frodo couldn’t be certain, but he didn’t want to ask. Elves were sticklers for courtesy, and the last thing Frodo wanted was to offer insults to his gracious Rivendell hosts. He contented himself with offering Lindir a place next to him on the bench, which the elf declined.
“My blood is hot,” said Lindir. “I do not trust my body to stay in one place for long.”
Frodo could understand the feeling, and he told Lindir so. The elf smiled, but offered no other insight into the situation.
A scream from one of the lower floors made both hobbit and elf jump.
“What…?” Frodo stood on the bench, trying to peer over the banister. Lindir gripped his shoulder.
“I’m sure it was nothing, young…”
A large Mirkwood spider appeared at the end of the corridor.
“That’s…a spider…” Frodo’s throat was dry, and his head spun. What should he do?
“Stay here,” said Lindir, twirling his lute menacingly as he stepped in front of the hobbit.
“Lindir! What are you…?” The words died in Frodo’s throat as the spider scuttled towards them.
Lindir, however, hardly seemed perturbed. In one fluid motion, he raised his lute above his head, and struck the spider between the eyes.
The spider froze, giving Lindir time for a roundhouse kick. The spider’s four front legs were whipped from beneath it, and the spider tumbled forward, launching over the banister and landing with a sickening “thud”.
“That one will no longer be a disturbance,” said Lindir, frowning as he wiped blood from his lute.
“How…?” Frodo’s voice cracked.
“The spiders of Mirkwood. This one likely followed Prince Legolas’ party. Rare for them to stray so far from home.” Lindir sighed. “But these are dark times, I suppose.”
“No,” said Frodo. “I meant to ask where you learnt to fight like that. I thought you were a minstrel.”
Lindir tilted his head. “No elf is completely helpless. I give credit for my training to Lord Glorfindel. He is –”
“The Balrog slayer! With hair of gold and deeds worthy of the gods!” Frodo’s face lit up as he remembered Bilbo’s fireside tales.
“He is also my uncle.” Lindir smiled at Frodo’s expression. “Perhaps you would like to meet him?”
Frodo’s widening grin was answer enough.


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