First of all, congratulations on reaching your 69th post. A truly noble milestone.
And as an incredibly normal, well-mannered, and not-at-all unhinged observer of your daily struggles—I mean, graceful existence—I feel it is my solemn duty to mark this occasion with a question of utmost importance.
Lindir, esteemed keeper of Rivendell’s peace (and, more importantly, its schedule), tell me: are you single? And before you answer, know that this is purely an academic inquiry, born from an innocent curiosity and not at all from any personal motivation, romantic interest, or long-standing conspiracy wherein I have polled every Elf, Dúnedain, and vaguely sentient being in a 50-mile radius to ascertain the truth.
Because here’s the thing—one might assume an Elf of your caliber, wit, and undeniable attractiveness (yes, I said it, let’s not pretend Elves don’t rank each other like fine wines) would be deeply entangled in some sort of poetic, star-crossed affair, filled with longing glances across candlelit libraries and scandalous parchment exchanges hidden between ledger pages. And yet, I have seen no evidence of such a thing. No dramatic sonnets read at dawn, no mysterious locket tucked into your robes, no pointed sighing while staring wistfully at the moon.
So, tell me, Lindir—beloved herald of order, reluctant babysitter of mortals, and keeper of Rivendell’s most cursed guest lists—do you walk this world alone?
And if so… is that by choice, by tragedy, or by the sheer and unfortunate reality that Elrond keeps you too busy to get laid?
Yours truly, a friend.
*pauses mid-scroll, squints at the screen, sips tea slowly ☕👀*
Ah.
The 69th post. Truly, a milestone of unparalleled nobility. I must commend your vigilance—a hawk would pale in comparison to your keen observation.
I am, however, utterly perplexed as to why some find this number so amusing. There has been much giggling. I do not understand. Is it a mortal thing? A cultural jest I am not privy to? Regardless, I shall proceed with grace.
Now. To the heart of your exceedingly subtle and not-at-all suspicious inquiry.
Am I single?
Ah. Such a question, asked with such charm and conspiratorial energy.
You speak of longing glances across candlelit libraries, scandalous parchment exchanges, and star-crossed affairs—truly, I wish I had such tales to share. How poetic it would be to speak of a love written in starlight, or of sighs meant for one soul alone.
And yet, here I stand. Alone.
Not by tragedy—though I am more than capable of delivering a tragic backstory with appropriately timed pauses, a distant gaze cast toward the horizon, and a single tear glistening with the weight of a thousand unspoken sorrows. I could weave a tale of lost love, of partings beneath silvered trees, of whispered promises drowned by the passage of time. But alas—no such heartbreak shadows my path.
Not by scandal—though, truthfully, my existence would likely be far less exhausting were scandal the root of my solitude. Imagine the allure! A forbidden affair, passionate letters exchanged beneath moonlight, the soft clink of wine glasses as secrets were shared. But no. Rivendell is scandalously lacking in scandal. The greatest thrill I experience is watching Erestor raise an eyebrow—and truly, that is a performance in itself.
And certainly not for lack of offers—I am told I possess a certain elegance, after all. A particular charm. Some have even said I move with the grace of poetry itself. I neither confirm nor deny such flattery, of course. A mystery should remain mysterious.
No. The truth, dear friend, is far more mundane. And thus, far more tragic.
It is time.
Time, or rather—the lack thereof.
For when one's days are consumed by the unending symphony of administrative burdens, romance must take a distant seat in the choir. Imagine, if you will:
— Balancing diplomatic schedules with all the precision of a sword dance, while certain dignitaries (who shall remain unnamed) believe punctuality is a mere suggestion. — Redirecting Glorfindel from disaster yet again—for what does paperwork matter to a legendary warrior when he can instead scale rooftops or declare himself above "petty mortal concepts" like forms and ledgers? — Enduring Erestor’s ceaseless glares, which communicate entire novels of disdain with but a single glance. Truly, his judgment is an art form. — Ensuring that Eredin, sweet Eredin, has not consumed his weight in cocoa before midday. For while I adore his gentle nature, the sugar-induced chaos that follows is a force more untamable than any dragon. — And above all, preventing Lord Elrond—long-suffering, dignified Lord Elrond—from losing the final, fragile shred of his patience. The man has held the weight of ages, but a rescheduled meeting? That may be his true breaking point.
And yet—yet!—is it not romantic, in its own way? To walk alone beneath the stars, to know oneself so deeply, to stand in quiet companionship with the moon and river?
Love, after all, is a patient thing. I do not chase it. If it comes, it will find me where I stand, pen in hand, perhaps sighing for reasons entirely unrelated to romance (but no less dramatic).
Until then, I remain:
✨ Single. Unbothered. Elegantly overworked. ✨
With poise, mystery, and exactly zero scandalous parchments hidden anywhere, —Lindir