Lindir, when was the last time you saw Lord Elrond smile? And it was because of what?
Ah, a rare and treasured sight—Lord Elrond, the ever-wise, ever-composed, allowing the barest hint of a smile to grace his face. And what, you may ask, could possibly evoke such a phenomenon? Some profound piece of elven poetry? A moment of scholarly enlightenment? A diplomatic victory?
No.
It was chocolate cake.
More specifically, Eredin’s chocolate cake.
Last week, Eredin—my dear scribe, patron saint of cocoa, and a certified enchanter of baked goods—arrived in the Hall of Fire bearing a masterpiece. A decadent, rich, impossibly moist chocolate cake, its scent wafting through the air like a siren’s call. He had made it with his own hands, fussing over the measurements, ensuring the layers were even, the frosting was perfectly smooth, the balance of flavors just right.
It was, in essence, a labor of love.
And when Lord Elrond, in all his wisdom and restraint, was offered a slice, he merely nodded—calm, composed, unshaken. But then… then, my friends, he took a bite. And in that instant, I swear to you, the very fabric of reality shifted.
There, for a fleeting moment, was something softer in his expression. The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. A fraction of a fraction of a smile. A twitch of amusement in his eyes, perhaps even—dare I say it—a flicker of contentment.
It was brief, like a shooting star across the night sky, but unmistakable.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone. The mask of the wise Lord Elrond returned, the expression carefully smoothed over. But we had seen it. We knew.
Eredin, of course, was oblivious, happily sipping his cocoa as if he hadn’t just cracked the impenetrable fortress that is Elrond’s usual demeanor.
But the rest of us? We would never forget.