Lindir, my friend, have you ever considered the possibility of shutting up. Glorfindel already talks and sings enough for three.
Sincerely, a fellow elf.
Ah, dearest Anonymous, bearer of unsolicited opinions and questionable taste—
Have you, perhaps, considered the revolutionary concept that I do not, in fact, give a single, solitary, mithril-plated fuck?
It is, dare I say, a concept so bold, so groundbreaking, that it might require some time to truly grasp. Allow me to elaborate: I—Lindir, the quiet storm, the symphony of reason in a sea of chaos—am far too busy managing the collective lunacy of Rivendell to concern myself with your little remark.
Truly, it is an idea worth pondering.
A marvel of modern thought.
A revelation that should be sung from the rooftops (by me, loudly, and in direct defiance of your suggestion).
I’m sure Glorfindel would be more than happy to belt it out, but alas, he’s busy demonstrating that one elf can, in fact, speak enough words for three, and he still manages to accidentally insult half the room.
He may speak and sing for three, but I shall complain for five.
But let us be fair, dear Anonymous. Have you considered the possibility that perhaps I thrive in the chaos that your suggestions hope to quell? That perhaps I find my place precisely in the cacophony of Rivendell, as the one true voice of reason among the throng of over-talkative elves?
You see, while you may yearn for silence, I revel in the art of conversation, the delicate balance of wit, sarcasm, and absolute fabulousness. Do you know why? Because someone has to keep this place from falling apart at the seams—and it’s not Glorfindel. Or Haldir. Or anyone else whose daily activity involves dramatically gesturing to the skies and shouting about glory while tripping over their own feet.
You see, my voice? My words? My dulcet, devastatingly clever, poetically devastating observations? They are a gift. A treasure bestowed upon Arda. A source of wisdom and entertainment alike.
Would you tell the birds to cease their song? Would you tell the waterfalls of Rivendell to dry up? Would you look Galadriel herself in the eye and say, “Perhaps enough with the visions”?
(If so, please do, I would love to watch.)
But alas, I am not so easily silenced. I shall continue to speak, to sing, to compose, to narrate my every experience with the dramatic gravitas of a Valar-cursed bard, and you, dear Anonymous, shall simply have to endure.
Sincerely, The One who actually makes Rivendell run, not that anyone has the decency to acknowledge it. The One Who Balances Chaos with Poise, The First of His Name, Keeper of Complaints
