#DoNotTouchTheBraidUnlessYouHaveAFuneralPlan

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

May I please request any of your favorite stories of our dear Marchwarden, Haldir? Has he always been as stoic and rigid as he is now? Is that merely a facade? Behind closed doors does he relax? Is it possible to make him break and crack a grin while working?

He is somewhat of an enigma to me, and I need the tea! ☕️

Ah, Haldir. The ever-watchful, ever-dutiful Marchwarden of Lothlórien. A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in an intimidatingly perfect braid.

Allow me to preface this by saying: Glorfindel fears him.

This alone should tell you all you need to know. Not in battle, mind you—Glorfindel has faced balrogs and the abyss of death itself—but in social situations? When Haldir levels a particularly unimpressed stare in his direction? The golden warrior retreats like a chastised elfling.

It is a truly wondrous sight.

Now, as for whether Haldir has always been so stoic and rigid—I suspect he emerged from the womb with that expression. You know the one. The quiet, vaguely judgmental stare that makes you second-guess every choice you’ve ever made. I have personally seen elves straighten their posture in his presence without realizing they are doing it.

But do not be fooled—beneath the gruff exterior, he is deeply loyal, protective, and, yes, even kind. If you have earned his respect (a process that may take anywhere between two decades and three centuries), he will defend you with his life.

He takes his duties seriously, not because he enjoys being severe, but because he loves his people, and to love so fiercely is a burden he carries without complaint.

As for making him crack while on duty? Possible, but you must be cunning. I have witnessed precisely two methods that have succeeded:

Eredin, sweet summer child that he is, once handed him a cup of cocoa with marshmallows shaped like mallorn leaves. Haldir did not smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. A momentous occasion.

An assistant (who shall remain nameless for their own safety) once made the mistake of tripping and grabbing Haldir’s braid to steady themselves. This is not recommended. The moment of pure, horrified disbelief on the Marchwarden’s face was something I shall cherish for eternity.

Allow me to take you back to a moment in time when I saw the impossible: Haldir of Lothlórien, the unflinching guardian of the Golden Wood, the immovable stone upon which many an elven foe has broken, smiling. And not just the polite twitch of a corner of his mouth, nor the sharp, knowing smirk of a warrior who has bested an opponent. No. A genuine, warm, helplessly amused smile.

The culprit? Lady Arwen, at the grand age of three.

It was a peaceful afternoon in Rivendell, and our Marchwarden had been sent as an emissary, as he often was, to speak with Lord Elrond. Business as usual—until, that is, the youngest of Rivendell’s household got wind of his presence. And she did not care that he was the proud, formidable Marchwarden of Lórien, nor that he had bested countless foes in battle, nor that he had a glare that could make even Glorfindel think twice (and that is saying something).

No. She cared for one thing and one thing alone: that the Lórien patrol had come on horseback.

“Horsies!” she declared, with the sheer authority only a toddler can possess.

And thus began the great incident in which Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people, personally appointed herself the official greeter of the Lórien delegation. No one—not myself, not Elrond, not Celebrían—could convince her otherwise. And so, before Haldir could so much as dismount, there she was, standing at the ready, tiny hands on her hips, prepared to greet the grand and mighty Marchwarden.

I will never forget the way Haldir froze when he saw her.

You must understand, he was used to many things—ambushes, battles, orc raids, unexpected weather shifts, diplomacy under the worst conditions. But a small elfling barreling toward him at full speed, eyes alight with excitement? That, he was not prepared for.

“I wish to pet the horsies,” she announced, quite fearlessly, as if this were a command he was duty-bound to obey.

Now, Haldir is many things—proud, disciplined, unshakable in his duty—but he is also, unfortunately for him, at the mercy of small, determined children. For a long moment, he simply stood there, utterly at a loss, his usual unflappable demeanor faltering. He glanced at me. I, being the supportive colleague that I am, offered no help whatsoever.

And then, it happened. The Marchwarden of Lothlórien, terror of invading orcs, nemesis of Glorfindel (who still claims Haldir is out to best him in every way), let out a very small sigh. And then—gods help us all—he smiled. Not a smirk. Not a condescending expression. A real smile, soft and nearly fond, as he crouched down and, in a rare show of indulgence, lifted her up onto his own horse so she could pet its mane to her heart’s content.

I have never seen a happier child in my life.

Did he regret it? Almost certainly, for she proceeded to babble at him for a full twenty minutes about all the animals she liked, which ones were the, and I quote, "fluffiest", and whether she could have a horse of her own one day (he very diplomatically suggested she ask her father).

But he listened. Patiently. With that same small, rare smile, as if he had been defeated, not by battle nor by wit, but by the sheer force of a toddler’s willpower.

And that, my dear friends, is how I came to witness the impossible. Haldir of Lórien, subdued by the unrelenting might of a tiny child demanding to pet the horsies.

So, yes, he does relax behind closed doors. Very rarely. Mostly when surrounded by those he trusts. And perhaps, if the stars align, he will allow himself a smirk. But a full laugh? A grin? I fear that is a prize none of us are worthy of witnessing other than Lady Arwen.

[PS: Ah, but there is one more revelation I must share—one that would surely send the Marchwarden into a fit of sheer disbelief:

Eredin and Melundir have suggested assistant sleepover parties. Yes, you read that correctly. Fuzzy jammies. S'mores. Whispered complaints about our respective lords and their impossible requests. There has been talk of face masks, hair-braiding sessions, and, in Eredin’s case, an alarming quantity of hot cocoa.

Would Haldir attend? Absolutely not. Would he stand outside the door with his arms crossed, ensuring no security threats infiltrate our very serious assistant gathering? Almost certainly.]