#“YourVoiceIsLikeMoonlight”

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

TW: mentions of alcohol

Liiiiiiiiiiiiindir,

I simply must know somethings: coffee, tea, or cocoa?

Have you ever tried a hot toddy? Or Irish coffee?

Lastly, I feel like Glorfindle would be quite amusing when intoxicated. Do you have any funny stories about him inebriated?

Ah, but what a question to pose!

To choose between tea, coffee, and cocoa? Impossible. I adore them all, each for their own unique merits. Tea, for its elegance, for the way it soothes and sharpens the mind in equal measure. Coffee, for its boldness, its rich depth, and the sheer will to live it bestows upon the weary. And cocoa—for what soul could deny the simple joy of a warm, sweet cup of comfort?

As for Irish coffee—absolutely, yes. A divine creation. A marvel. A warm, spiced, intoxicating delight. But alas, I must confess…

I do not know what a hot toddy is.

I regret this lack of knowledge deeply. It wounds me. I feel as though I have failed in some intrinsic way. Please, someone, illuminate me—what is this mysterious concoction, and what am I missing?

Now.

Glorfindel. Intoxicated.

There are many stories. Many. But one in particular still lingers in my mind, for it was both chaotic and utterly perplexing.

We had been celebrating—what, precisely, I can no longer recall. A successful campaign? A festival? Simply a Tuesday that had gone on too long? In any case, there was wine. A great deal of wine. And Glorfindel, valiant and mighty warrior that he is, has… a rather enthusiastic approach to drinking.

And so, in due time, he was drunk. Very drunk. Disastrously drunk.

Which is how I found myself on the receiving end of a flurry of drunken flirtation.

“Lindir,” he said, swaying precariously, “has anyone ever told you your voice is like moonlight?”

I attempted to ignore him. This did not deter him.

“No, truly,” he insisted, “like moonlight in the form of sound. I think if I listen too long, I might weep from sheer beauty.”

And indeed, he did begin to weep.

At which point he declared he wished for a hug. From me.

Me. Lindir of Imladris.

I, of course, did not oblige. This was not the correct answer.

He was heartbroken. He lamented. He dramatically clutched his chest, as if struck by some terrible, unseen wound. He recited poetry in my honor.

It was, regrettably, very good poetry.

Elladan and Elrohir were both on the verge of collapse from laughter. Erestor had long since abandoned us, muttering something about not being paid enough for this. And Elrond…

Elrond merely took a long, weary sip of his wine and said, “This is your burden to bear now.”

And so I endured it. The poetry. The heartbreak. The unwavering need for a hug.

Eventually, he passed out. I had to personally ensure he made it to his chambers in one piece. And the next morning?

He remembered nothing.

I am so glad the golden menace isn't here on this interweb, dear Anon.