not-glorfindel-stop-asking

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Would you ever go skinny dipping in the Bruinen, or are you more of a “sit on a rock dramatically and recite poetry” type?

Ah. Ahem.

I’ve stared at this question for longer than I care to admit, and I must ask—what in Elbereth’s name is “skinny dipping”?

Is this some sort of newfangled fishing technique? A culinary practice involving very thin slices of bread in sauce? A minimalist swimming method? Is one required to be particularly lean in order to participate? Because I regret to inform you that I snack. Frequently.

Is it perhaps the act of a very slender person—let’s say, hypothetically, Eredin—gracefully lowering themselves into the river while looking windswept and tragic, like the ghost of a martyred sea prince? Because if so, he’s already done that. Several times. Unprompted.

If, on the other hand, you’re implying that I would just leap into the Bruinen in the nude, then I must inform you—NO, I WOULD NOT.

Absolutely not! I am a dignified elf. A bard! A keeper of robes and mysteries!

I would perch on a rock, yes—perhaps with one knee draped poetically, journal in hand, the wind teasing my hair—but I would do so clothed, thank you very much.

This is Rivendell, not a tavern in Dol Amroth.

…That said, Eredin once tried to dare me into bathing in the river clothed, under the full moon “for inspiration.” I almost did it, too. Then I saw a frog and fell backwards off the rock.

Never again.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Would you be interested in teaching me how to play the harp? I can pay you for the lessons too.

Ah, Lord of Lothlórien, esteemed tree-admirer and wearer of velvets so fine they make the stars feel underdressed—

Firstly, I am honoured by your request! To be asked to teach you, Celeborn of Doriath, of all elves, the harp—well. My knees went weak. My quill fell from my hand. I had to sit down and sip something calming.

Now. Would I teach you the harp?

Yes. Absolutely. Of course. But— And I must stress this—if and only if Lord Elrond allows me a single uninterrupted afternoon in which I am not: • Organising the archives, • Hunting down mysteriously vanished ink shipments, • Or attempting to decode the inventory list Erestor wrote entirely in Quenya cursive while sleep-deprived.

If I am granted this sacred window of time, I would delight in showing you the strings.

Imagine it: we sit in the sun-dappled courtyard, a pair of harps gleaming like captured moonlight. I demonstrate a soft trill, and you—after several noble attempts and one minor string-related disaster—replicate it with surprising grace. Birds begin to gather. Glorfindel drifts dramatically through the scene. A squirrel applauds.

It could be beautiful.

So. Yes. I am willing. Perhaps eager. Just please—have a word with Elrond. Or better yet, send Galadriel. If she asks for my schedule to be cleared, I suspect even Erestor would flee the room.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Oh, Lindir! Don’t move!

There’s a little kitten sleeping on your lap! Aww, and it’s purring!

Ah. Yes. I am aware. I have not moved for three hours. My legs are numb. My tea has gone cold. I believe I have witnessed the passing of several seasons from this very spot.

And yet—I shall not stir.

You see, yes, I have been missing. I was swallowed by paperwork, consumed by correspondence, and mildly electrocuted by an unfortunate experiment involving Glorfindel’s “new and improved lantern design.” I emerged from these trials battered, sleep-deprived, and on the verge of becoming a whisper in the halls of Imladris.

But just as I was about to reclaim my life, gather my quills, and write to you all… this kitten. This divine, purring entity. This tiny warm loaf of whiskered joy leapt into my lap, curled up, and promptly fell asleep with such violent peace that I dare not disturb it.

So I remain. As a chair. As a willing prisoner of soft fur and delicate purring. I have accepted my fate.

If someone could please bring me a cold drink and perhaps a snack that can be consumed with one hand and no sudden movements, I would be eternally grateful.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Hi Lindir!

If someone (let’s say… Elrond, for reasons) gave you an entire week off and insisted you go camping to 'relax your delicate nerves', what would you pack? Who would you bring (if anyone)? What activities would you do? And most importantly, how long before something deeply strange or mildly cursed happens in the woods?

Ah, what a divine question—finally, someone acknowledges that I too crave the woods and moss and mist and a break from the ever-mounting piles of parchment.

Contrary to what certain people (Glorfindel) may believe, I do in fact love camping. I adore the sound of wind in the leaves, the smell of pine and wet earth, and waking up at dawn with the sun turning everything gold. What I do not adore is someone stealing my boots in the night or replacing my herbal tea with “something stronger, it builds character,” Glorfindel.

Now—what would I pack?

A map (hand-annotated, colour-coded, waterproofed, thank you very much)

My journal

My sketchbook and watercolours (also a set for Eredin, because he likes to pretend he’s not an artist, but the last time we camped, he painted a moth that made me cry)

A tent, because I am not sleeping under a tree like a feral forest sprite unless the stars are particularly charming that night

Herbs, bandages, snacks, a travel kettle, and cocoa powder, because what’s the point of communing with nature if you can’t be cozy?

As for companions…

Eredin, of course. My dearest companion in life, mushroom-identification debates, and emotionally fraught fireside conversations.

Glorfindel, because if I don’t invite him, he’ll invite himself anyway and then say things like “you didn’t say I couldn’t follow you.” Plus, he is useful when a tree needs to be dramatically chopped for kindling or wrestled.

Elihal, because we require a ranger, someone to tell us which berries will kill us, and quite frankly, that man deserves to unclench his jaw and touch moss without pretending he’s not enjoying it.

Activities, you ask?

Gentle morning walks to collect mushrooms, herbs, and possible cursed stones

Sketching by the river, where Glorfindel will inevitably fall in “accidentally”

Campfire cooking, which devolves into a chaotic symphony of spice debates and Eredin pretending not to be a culinary genius while somehow plating a stew like a forest prince

Trail hiking, complete with stories, light complaining, and possibly a brief and completely unprovoked race to the top of the hill

How long before something deeply strange or mildly cursed happens?

Ten minutes. Max. The woods hum differently when we enter. Last time, a frog stared directly into Eredin’s soul, we found a ring of mushrooms that Elihal refused to acknowledge, and something kept rearranging our boots. Glorfindel claimed it was a squirrel. I claim Glorfindel was the squirrel.

Still—I'd go again in a heartbeat.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

What would you consider the best flowers to have in a flower crown if you were to wear one on a peaceful, uninterrupted day in a secluded meadow with a picnic and your favorite books?

Ah… what a tender, impossibly peaceful vision. A secluded meadow, a picnic basket filled with good bread and soft cheese, a few crumbling spines of well-loved books, and a day untouched by responsibility or noise? Say less.

As for the flower crown—naturally, I have considered this at length. I could never settle on just one arrangement, of course—it would depend entirely on the season, the region, and the particular kind of whimsy gripping me that day.

Default Dream Crown: Dandelions and daisies. Humble, soft, cheerful things that don’t demand attention but light up the green like laughter. The crown would be messy—wild—woven without care for symmetry, the way real joy never pauses to arrange itself.

Mountain Meadow Edition: Bluebells, edelweiss, and wild thyme. Something delicate, with little star-like blooms nodding gently in the breeze. I’d lie back on a blanket and pretend to read while secretly watching the clouds for answers I don’t need.

Spring Court Fantasy: Peach blossoms, trailing vines, and pale butter-yellow primroses. Maybe a sprig of lavender tucked behind my ear for the scent. This one would absolutely make birds try to land on me. I’d allow it. We would discuss poetry.

“I Pretend I’m A Woodland Prince” Crown: Foxglove, forget-me-nots, violets, and those tiny fern curls just as they start to unfurl. Possibly illegal levels of aesthetic power. I would have to bring a basket of scones just to stay grounded.

Ultimately, though? If I’m in a soft meadow with the sun warm on my skin, a book in my lap, and a gentle breeze, I don’t care what’s in the crown. I’d even wear one made entirely of clover and moss—as long as no one interrupts me. Not even a messenger. Especially not a messenger. I am off-duty.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

If your soul got stuck in a spoon, what kind of soup would you demand to stir before passing into the next life?

Ah, the age-old question: if one’s soul were imprisoned within a humble spoon, what divine broth would be deemed worthy to stir before ascending into the next plane of existence?

Now. If—Valar forbid—my soul were to become trapped in a spoon, I would not pass quietly into the next realm without making a final, dramatic statement. No. I would demand to stir, at the very least, three emotionally significant soups before I ascend. After all, if one must haunt a utensil, one might as well do it with flair and flavour.

Firstly: If I must perish and become silverware (a tragedy in three acts, surely), I would first demand—demand—to stir Eredin’s garlic and herb mushroom soup. Not just any mushroom soup. No, no. This one is rich, earthy, and absurdly comforting, with golden shallots that melt in your mouth and herbs so fresh they could compose poetry. He simmers it slowly, lovingly, like a bard composing a ballad—every swirl of cream a verse, every dash of thyme a chorus. He makes it every year when the leaves turn golden and the mornings grow crisp, and he insists on foraging half the ingredients himself. It tastes like walking into a warm home after a long cold day. It tastes like someone pressing a kiss to your hairline and saying “you’re safe now.” If I must be a ghostly spoon, I will be that ghostly spoon.

I wept once while eating it. I thought no one saw. Eredin absolutely did. He said nothing, but he made extra the next day and quietly handed it over with a spoon that may or may not have been warmed. I cherish that memory and that spoon. (It wasn’t even cursed!)

Secondly: Elihal—Eredin’s brother, who pretends to be emotionally dead inside but once knitted a sock for a horse. Oh, Elihal. He only cooks once in a blue moon, and when he does, the event is accompanied by dramatic declarations of “fine, but if anyone says a single word, I’ll toss the whole pot into the river.”

He made a spiced root vegetable and lamb stew once that was so good I nearly proposed marriage. The broth was thick, smoky, layered with flavors that unfolded like a well-kept secret. There were whispers of cinnamon, the heat of cracked pepper, and roasted parsnips that must have been kissed by fire itself. He said he just threw things in a pot. I believe he made a pact with a forest spirit.

Thirdly: There was once a hearty potato, leek, and carrot soup made during a particularly rainy week in early autumn—the kind of week where even the trees look like they’d like a blanket and a good cry. Eredin, of course, had gone out into the woods in what I can only describe as an ill-advised quest for “the perfect wild carrot.” He returned damp, smug, and holding exactly three root vegetables like they were newborns.

The soup itself was divine. Thick, creamy, humble—but don’t let the simplicity fool you. The potatoes were buttery, the leeks practically sang, and the carrots had the audacity to be sweet and earthy at once. There was thyme. There was garlic. There was a drizzle of cream and a flourish of cracked black pepper that made me gasp audibly. I am still recovering emotionally.

Eredin called it “just something to warm us up.” I called it a revelation. I nearly wrote a ballad. Elihal stole three bowls, claimed it was “mid,” and then went back for a fourth in the dead of night like some culinary cryptid.

If my soul must haunt this realm bound to the curvature of a spoon, let it be one that has basked in that broth.

So, in conclusion, if I am to exist in the afterlife as a spoon, I would ask—no, insist—on one final swirl through Eredin’s mushroom soup… a single, reverent dip into Elihal’s once-a-lifetime stew, and a last dip in the marvelous potato leek soup. Then, and only then, may I pass peacefully into the Great Dishwasher Beyond.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

What’s your emotional support inanimate object in Elrond’s house? Mine is the haunted armchair in the east corridor that sighs when I sit down.

Ah. A most excellent question—and one that I have pondered far more often than I care to admit aloud.

Now, many would assume that my emotional support inanimate object would be something sensible. A favored quill. A well-worn scroll. The particularly plush pillow in the library that might be enchanted to hum lullabies from the Second Age (I neither confirm nor deny this).

But no.

My emotional support object in Elrond’s house is—and I say this with full sincerity—the large decorative vase in the hallway leading to the west balcony.

Yes, that one.

The one no one is entirely sure where it came from, with the faded patterns of swans and a suspiciously smug-looking elf painted on the side. I lean against it when I am exhausted. I whisper into it when no one will listen. I have cried next to it twice. Once, I may have hugged it. Desperate times.

It is always cold to the touch, dignified, and unmoving—much like Lord Erestor on a bad day—and thus incredibly comforting. It listens. It judges silently. It bears the weight of my spiraling emotional state and the occasional tea spill with stoic grace.

I once named it Vaesilien, Keeper of My Sanity during a particularly bad day of festival planning. I told Eredin. He did not blink. He simply nodded and placed a small crocheted scarf around its rim. That’s how we all cope here.

Your haunted sighing armchair and my silent emotional vase would, I believe, get along famously.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

I really hope this comes through because this is a very important and most serious question Lindir.

What, in your opinion, is the best name for a demonic hamster?

Ah! My sincerest apologies for the delay—truly, I intended to answer sooner, but I have been swept into the chaos of organizing Rivendell’s Spring Festival. There are banners. There are flower arrangements. There was a horrifying incident involving glitter. We do not speak of the glitter.

Now. To the matter at hand. A question of grave importance. The naming of a demonic hamster.

But tell me first—what kind of demonic are we speaking of? There are layers to these things. Are we referring to a shrieking, red-eyed, escape-artist menace that chews through the bars of its cage and escapes into the pantry at night, only to be found eating a sacred scroll from Númenor? Or are we imagining a tiny, malevolent fuzzball who knows you’re watching and maintains prolonged eye contact while knocking over its water bowl with the same energy as a fallen archangel?

Because if it is the former, I humbly suggest: Skritch. Short, ominous, deeply unsettling when whispered in the dark. If the latter? I am torn between Beelzebub Jr. and Lord Squeaksalot the Terrible.

The duality of dread and dignity.

Alternatively, for a more ancient feel, I recommend:

Morthûrz (Black Fangs, in a dialect I shall not name).

Pip. Because imagine someone discovering the shattered remains of your teacup and whispering, "Pip has returned."

Or simply: Derek. No one ever suspects Derek. And that is how he wins.

If you have a cage, lock it. If you have a talisman, wear it. If you hear faint squeaking behind the walls tonight… …it is already too late.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

If Erestor was secretly a cryptid, what would his cryptid power be?

Option A: Floating ominously down corridors?

Option B: Whispering deadlines into your ears at 3AM?

Option C: Summoning fog whenever someone misuses a semicolon?

Bold of you to assume he doesn’t do all three already.

Honestly, at this point, I'm not entirely convinced Erestor isn't a cryptid. Have you ever seen him enter a room? No doors creak. No footsteps sound. He is simply there, materializing like a particularly judgmental ghost in a high-collared robe. And then, before you know it—

“The annual census is due, Lindir.”

It’s always the census. Even when it isn’t.

Floating ominously down corridors? I once saw him glide past the Hall of Fire in complete silence, long cloak billowing like he had a dedicated wind team on standby. He made eye contact with Elrohir, and that poor soul flinched so hard he dropped his entire mug of tea.

Whispering deadlines into your ears at 3AM? I’ve heard it. I’ve felt it. There I was, dreaming peacefully of a life without parchment, when suddenly—

“…the tax ledgers, Lindir…”

I awoke in a cold sweat. The moon was full. The quills were trembling.

And as for summoning fog whenever someone misuses a semicolon? My gods, yes. There was a visiting scholar who attempted to defend the phrase “a semicolon is just a fancy comma”—and I kid you not, an actual cloud rolled in through the arched windows.

Indoors.

Indoors.

Erestor simply narrowed his eyes and said, “Amateur.” The scholar left. No one knows where he went. Sometimes we hear soft weeping in the archives. It might be him.

So yes. He floats. He whispers. He conjures semantic fogs. If that’s not a cryptid, I don’t know what is.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Have you ever heard Estel say something so profoundly unhinged you had to walk into a river and sit in silence? Send the quote. For science.

Oh, sweet stars above.

Yes. Yes, I have. I remember it vividly, because I did in fact walk directly into the Bruinen, fully clothed, and remained there for at least an hour while Eredin brought me a towel and Elihal asked if I had finally lost the will to live (rude).

It was a calm evening. Estel, perhaps ten or eleven at the time, had managed to evade his lessons again, and we were sat in the Hall of Fire while Glorfindel regaled us with tales of woe and valor. Estel was pretending to be enraptured. I should’ve known something was coming. There was a gleam in his eye.

Mischief.

Madness.

The kind of look one sees right before someone sets off fireworks indoors.

Glorfindel was halfway through describing the tragic last stand of an elven captain—swords clashing, honor ablaze, etc etc—and Estel, without breaking eye contact, leaned toward me and whispered:

“Do you think if I died dramatically enough in battle, Elrond would finally let me have a pet manticore?”

…

A pet.

Manticore.

I turned. I blinked.

I stared at this child of Men—this boy who could not be trusted with garden shears, let alone a mythical beast with venomous spikes and a lion’s face—and all I could say was, “Excuse me?”

He simply nodded solemnly, as though he’d stated a truth universally acknowledged. “I think if I make it noble enough, it cancels out the ethical issues.”

Reader. I stood. I left. I walked to the river. I walked into the river. Fully cloaked. Sat on a rock. The current moved around me, as if to say, “You poor, poor creature.”

Glorfindel found me there much later and said, and I quote, “Ah. He’s reached the Manticore Phase. It passes, usually around age twelve.”

After the river incident, I thought the worst had passed.

I hoped—naïvely—that he would be distracted by swordplay, or mud pies, or anything else in the realm of normal childhood.

I was wrong. So profoundly wrong.

It began again two days later when I found him sprawled across the library floor, surrounded by parchment, rulers, inkpots, and a singularly unhinged glint in his eye. He had been drawing. Blueprints. Not for Rivendell. Not for a treehouse.

No.

He was meticulously designing what he called “The Sanctum of Spikes and Cuddles.”

“Estel,” I said gently, stepping over a discarded schematic labeled ‘secret snuggling nook’, “what… is this?”

He blinked up at me with the calm assurance of someone who has never been told no. “It’s the manticore enclosure, Lindir. It needs a waterfall, obviously, and I’ve accounted for enrichment. This wheel spins when he roars.”

Reader, there was a roar-powered hamster wheel.

But it didn’t stop there.

Later that very week, I heard commotion in the kitchens. Now, normally I try to mind my own business—truly I do—but curiosity dragged me in like a riptide.

Estel was in the pantry. Holding a sack of flour. Covered in jam. “Elrond’s bones,” I breathed, “What are you doing now?”

He turned, beaming. “Making manticore treats! Glorfindel said beasts respond well to food rewards. I’m experimenting with textures.”

He had experimented all over the counter. There were roughly seven half-finished “treats” in various states of horror, including what I can only describe as a charred scone filled with sardines.

“Where is Glorfindel?” I demanded.

“Helping me find a name for the bakery we’ll open once Sir Nibbles retires from war,” he replied cheerfully.

I left the kitchen.

I left my body.

I was but a soul, drifting. Eredin had to drag me back to my senses with a damp cloth and a strong cup of tea. Elihal suggested we simply ban beasts from the lore curriculum. I am inclined to agree.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Give me your most unprovable theory about Arwen. I won’t judge. She might, though

Certainly. Ahem.

*Lindir clears his throat, glances side to side, and leans in conspiratorially...*

Very well. But you must promise not to tell her I said this, for I do value my life, my dignity, and the structural integrity of my kneecaps.

Here it is:

I am utterly convinced that Arwen Undómiel once, during a particularly quiet century, trained under an ancient and elusive order of forest cryptid-illusionists and is, in fact, capable of turning into a white stag at will. Not only that, but I believe she regularly does this to terrorize hunters who trespass too deeply into the woods with poor manners and worse aim.

She leaves behind only faint hoofprints and the haunting sound of delicate laughter carried on the wind. No one believes it. But I do. I have seen the glint in her eye when she hears the word "venison." She knows. She remembers.

Additionally, I think she once won a knife-throwing competition under an alias and then vanished before anyone could question it. She absolutely keeps the golden dagger trophy in a chest labeled "sentimental items" next to old love letters and dried lavender.

Also. And this is important. I am 98% sure she is the anonymous author of a wildly popular smutty romance saga circulating among the maidens of Gondor, written under the pseudonym "Moonlace." I refuse to elaborate further.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

📝A Note from OP (i.e. me, the one wrangling this beautiful chaos)📝:

Hey babes! Just a little heads-up because I don’t want anyone to feel ignored or ghosted—if you’ve been sending asks and I haven’t replied, please know that it’s not personal! I’ve been getting the notifications and the asks number thingy (so I know someone is valiantly trying to communicate through the void), but when I check my inbox? Nothing. Nada. Disappeared into the shadow realm.

It looks like someone may have been shadowbanned, or Tumblr is simply having one of her iconic Moments™ again. Same goes for a couple of notifs that appear but lead to nowhere—I promise I’m not ignoring you, I just physically cannot see the messages/reactions/asks!

So if you think this might be you: - Try sending your ask from a different account - Or feel free to message me directly (if you’re comfy)!

If you’ve found that you can’t send DMs, your asks keep vanishing, or your reactions just aren’t showing up anywhere—there’s a good chance you’ve been shadowbanned (don’t worry, it happens to the best of us, and also to Glorfindel, probably because he was too powerful).

🛠️ What to do if this is you: 👉 You’ll need to contact Tumblr Support directly. 📨 Head to here and send them a ticket!:

🗣️ Explain what’s happening (be polite, even if you are 7 seconds from setting the servers on fire). 💌 They can and do lift shadowbans once they’ve reviewed your case!

Until then, I might not see what you’re sending, even if I’m technically getting notifications! You're not being ignored—Tumblr is just playing invisible cloak with your content. Sending support and a strong cup of tea to anyone dealing with this 🫂

I appreciate every single interaction, even the unhinged ones, especially the unhinged ones 💚 Thank you for being here and for bringing this elf so much joy.

Love, —OP (aka the human behind Lindir, currently battling Tumblr’s invisible wall mechanic)

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

If you were given a cursed tiara that made you instantly win every argument, but only by bursting into tears and reciting tragic haikus, would you wear it to council meetings?

Bold of you to assume I do not already burst into tears in every argument.

Truly, have you ever been to a council meeting? Have you heard me attempting to debate Glorfindel over whether or not the guest chamber curtains should be deep blue or "sky-kissed shimmer"? Have you seen me stand my ground when Erestor said my filing system was “adorably chaotic” and then smirked?

If I had a cursed tiara that granted me victory through weeping and sorrowful poetry, that would simply be… Tuesday.

Imagine with me, dear anon of the city of Ymous.

I rise from my chair, tiara glinting with ancient malevolence, my eyes already shining. I don’t yell—I simply shudder, raise a hand, and murmur:

“All your points are void For my heart is cracked like glass And you don’t use tabs.”

And they fall silent. The room stills. Even Elrond leans back slowly, rubbing his temples. Glorfindel tries to protest, but my voice trembles as I follow it with:

“You mock my scrollwork But when your archive catches Fire—I’ll just watch.”

At which point the entire council votes in favor of me, again, because nobody wants to see if my tears are also flammable.

Do you know how many policy changes I could accomplish with that tiara?

The aesthetic revolution I would usher in?

Everyone would be too emotionally exhausted to oppose me.

And Eredin? Eredin would carry tissues, a tiny harp, and snacks at all times. Just in case. He knows the signs.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

If you were a deer but kept your current level of anxiety, how long would it take before Elrond had you gently relocated to a soft pasture and told never to return?

Oh, dear Anon—pun absolutely intended—

I regret to inform you that I am already a creature of anxiety. Simply dressed in elf-form. If I were to suddenly shift into the shape of a deer, with no reduction in my current nervous disposition, I daresay I would not last a day in civilized woodland society.

Imagine.

I am a lovely, wide-eyed doe, trembling behind a thistle bush because someone rustled too loudly in the underbrush. I’ve overthought the direction of the wind for twenty minutes. A sparrow sneezes and I FLING myself into a ravine out of pure reflex. Every twig snap is a potential ambush. Every leaf fall? A calculated omen. And if someone were to look at me with affection? I would sprint headfirst into a tree.

Elrond would most certainly step in—not out of malice, but out of sheer concern. I imagine it would go something like: “Lindir. Dearest. You have mistaken wind for wolves three times in one hour. You are vibrating. I must insist you be relocated to a quiet, secluded pasture with plenty of grass and absolutely no unexpected sounds. You may take your emotional support moss with you.”

And I—glassy-eyed and panicked—would nod in frantic agreement before galloping off, but tripping halfway through the glade because I’m trying to carry a bundle of scrolls with my mouth.

I do love deer, though. So soft, so watchful. I admire the gentleness of does, the shy boldness of fawns, and the sheer drama of a startled stag vanishing like a ghost. I would like to believe I’d be a graceful woodland vision... but realistically? I’d be the anxious blur in the distance, running from a butterfly and crying because I left my snacks behind.

Ah, but of course—because no matter how far I fled, how many rivers I forded in a panicked canter, or how many times I tried to disguise myself as a shrub out of sheer embarrassment—Elrond would find me.

He’d appear like some majestic parental warden of peace, cloak unruffled, expression calm, hair unbothered by the journey (how does he do that?), standing at the edge of my chosen panic-clearing while I, a disheveled and slightly grass-stained deer, stared back at him mid-graze with the haunted eyes of someone who has mistaken a squirrel for a specter.

“Lindir,” he would say, voice like the river and judgment all at once. “You cannot keep attempting to live in exile every time a cricket looks at you.”

I’d blink. Slowly. Then try to bolt, of course. But alas—Elrond would already have somehow anticipated this and casually sidestep to reveal that he had brought not only a very soft blanket and an herbal tonic... but Eredin. Holding a saddlebag full of my favorite scrolls. And maybe a bottle of mango chutney. (He knows what lures me.)

Eredin, of course, would immediately say something like, “You are covered in mud and you smell like daisies. Are you alright?” in that infuriating, sweet tone of his, and I’d crumble. Like a soggy leaf.

And thus, I would be escorted back—safe, sound, and thoroughly chastised for thinking I could out-worry my way into deer-based freedom.

I’d return to Rivendell, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito of shame and grass, escorted by the Lord of Imladris himself while Eredin sighs fondly and plucks leaves from my hair.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

♡♡♡ send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!!! ♡♡♡

Ohhh—! 🌸

I’m so sorry I’m late to this absolute bouquet of kindness!! But thank you so much, truly—what a lovely thing to find nestled in my inbox. You’ve made me smile like a fool at dawn with a new book and fresh ink. 💚

I’m sending this forward with soft thoughts, springtime warmth, and maybe a few cinnamon-sugar pastries in a little napkin. You are wonderful too, and I’m so glad you thought of me! 🥺💐

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

so i declare...

...

...

MARSHMELLON!

*smoiles*

from,

Marshmellon

You radiant, sugary poet of chaos—

Do you understand the magnitude of what you have just done? You cannot simply step into my inbox, toss a pun so divinely inspired, and stroll away with a smile. No. No, Marshmellon. You have altered the trajectory of my day. I was in the middle of sorting scrolls and having a quiet meltdown about parchment sizes and now I am weeping into my sleeve from sheer, saccharine joy.

MARSHMELLON. A declaration of war? A declaration of love?? A declaration of friendship sealed with s’mores and affection???

Whatever it is, I accept. Wholeheartedly. Enthusiastically. With a dramatic bow and possibly a sonnet in your honor to follow. You have given me a gift today, Marshmellon. A word. A legacy.

I shall carry this with me always. I shall call Eredin Marshmellon henceforth when he is sweet and flustered. He will not understand but he will glow pink and I will know. I will know.

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Ohhh, do you know what you have done? Do you know what seeds you have sown with this blasphemous accusation?

Let me begin by saying: I am indeed a devoted worshipper of mango chutney. It is the sun-kissed ambrosia of jarred condiments. The sweet, the spice, the sheer vibrancy of it—it sings upon the tongue, a choir of delight. Peach is… fine. Acceptable. A charming understudy when mango is unavailable. But let us not mistake a fleeting lapse in pantry stock for a change in heart! That peach jar you witnessed was a moment of desperation, not devotion. I was starving. The bread was there. The peach chutney was there. It was a matter of survival.

Do not mistake survival for preference, Glorfindel.

And no, I was not cradling the jar like a precious relic, muttering “sweet summer fruit” under my breath. That’s slander. You have no proof. Eredin swore an oath of silence. (I think. I may have just shoved a spoonful of chutney in his mouth to keep him from laughing.)

Also: What are you and the twins not planning. Why would you even say that. Why plant that specific seed of terror in my heart. I am fragile. And now I must go inventory my pantry.

Mango chutney forever. Peach chutney in a pinch.

📣 BREAKING NEWS: LOCAL SCRIBE FINALLY REUNITED WITH FLAVOUR — YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HE SPREAD IT ON FIRST. 🍞😭

Citizens of Rivendell and beyond, I bring you news so vital, so emotionally charged, that I can scarcely believe I am writing it with my own trembling hands:

It is once again mango chutney time.

Yes. You read that correctly. The stars have aligned. The kitchen has been raided. The spices have spoken. And Eredin—sweet, begrudging, culinary genius that he is—has finally made another batch of his sacred mango chutney. After WEEKS of relentless pleading on my part.

I am not ashamed.

I begged. I groveled. I may or may not have slipped a very persuasive note under his door with a dramatic sketch of myself perishing in the desert from chutney withdrawal.

He rolled his eyes. He muttered something about "dramatic elves with no self-preservation instinct and too much bread." And then? He made it.

And friends… it is DIVINE. It is SWEET. It is SPICY. It is the SUN distilled into a jar.

I have spread it on toast. I have spread it on cheese. I briefly considered spreading it on myself and being done with it.

Do not underestimate how dangerously good this chutney is. I’m fairly certain I entered a minor fugue state after the second bite. Eredin tried to say "don’t cry, it’s not that good" but HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND.

This is not food. This is salvation.