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.

Ah, now this is a story worth telling.

Picture, if you will, dear Anon, a grand gathering in Rivendell’s halls, where lords and dignitaries had assembled for a discussion of great importance (or so they believed). Among them was a certain Lord Faelion—an elf of considerable age, impressive lineage, and an ego so vast it could have its own postal system.

He was the kind of elf who believed wisdom was dictated by years alone, and that any who had not seen at least three Ages of the world should remain silent in the presence of their betters.

Unfortunately for him, Arwen was four years old.

Now, young she may have been, but Arwen had spent her years listening to her father and his advisors, absorbing the art of debate as naturally as she did the Sindarin tongue. She was also, at this tender age, under the impression that she was already an adult—because, as she reasoned, she could read, she could write, and she could (as she often reminded those around her) put on her own shoes without assistance. This made her eminently qualified to participate in any and all discussions.

And so, when Lord Faelion made the grave mistake of dismissing something she said with a condescending "Little one, this is a conversation for those who understand such matters," Arwen straightened her spine and proceeded to annihilate him.

With perfect posture, a deceptively sweet voice, and the cutting precision of someone who had spent a lifetime (or, well, four years) observing her father handle insufferable dignitaries, she launched into what I can only describe as a verbal disembowelment.

She began with a simple, innocent question:

"Lord Faelion, how many books have you read about this?"

He scoffed. "Many, child."

"Oh," she said, tilting her head. "Then why does Ada always say that the wise do not claim to know everything?"

The room fell silent.

Lord Faelion’s lips parted, as if attempting a rebuttal, but Arwen was not finished.

"And," she continued, "if you were really wise, you would know that speaking down to people makes them not want to listen to you, which means you are not a very good teacher, which means you cannot be as wise as you say you are."

She clasped her hands delicately in front of her, blinking up at him with large, guileless eyes. "Ada always says that wise elves help others learn. So maybe you should read a few more books before saying you understand everything."

I watched Lord Faelion’s soul leave his body.

The assembled company exchanged stunned glances, the kind one gives when witnessing something both horrifying and awe-inspiring.

Lord Elrond, always the composed ruler, pressed his fingers together in deep contemplation and very diplomatically told Arwen that it was not polite to dismantle others in front of an audience.

Then, later that evening, when he thought no one else was listening, I saw Lord Elrond settle Arwen on his lap at the dinner table, handing her his untouched dessert without a word. She accepted it with the grace of one who expected such tributes, happily digging in as he smoothed a hand over her hair.

"Next time," he murmured, pressing a proud kiss to the top of her head, "try not to do it so thoroughly, my dear."

He was grinning.

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.

Oh, what a cruel and impossible choice.

On the one hand, tripping and landing in Lord Elrond’s lap during a solemn and dignified council meeting would be a diplomatic catastrophe. I can already hear the stunned silence, the sharp intake of breath from every elf present, the barely suppressed laughter of the twins, and Glorfindel’s audible gasp of delighted scandal. I would have to live with the eternal knowledge that I had sullied the sanctity of official Rivendell proceedings by sprawling across our esteemed lord like a particularly graceless cat.

And, of course, Elrond—ever composed—would simply adjust his robes, clear his throat, and ask, “Are you quite comfortable, Lindir?” in a tone so measured and polite that I would be tempted to hurl myself into the Bruinen out of sheer embarrassment.

On the other hand, tripping and falling onto Glorfindel—publicly, no less—would be a disaster of an entirely different nature. Firstly, there is no universe in which Glorfindel would not catch me with the flair and flourish of a romantic hero in some overwrought Noldorin epic.

There would be dipping.

There would be twirls.

There would be an insufferable, self-satisfied grin. The crowd would cheer. He would wink. And then he would never let me forget it. Ever.

Every time I so much as step too quickly near him, he would suddenly brace as if preparing to catch me. He would tell tales of it—exaggerated and ridiculous, until future generations believe I flung myself into his arms out of sheer passion. I would lose all credibility as a serious scribe and become nothing more than “the elf who swooned into Glorfindel’s embrace.”

And yes, I do really think your hair looks pettable. You do a great jon with it. You and Lindir are both very beautiful elves in my humble opinion, but when you stand next to him he looks so much more relaxed its uncanny. (I didn't know an elf could look this stressed constantly! I really need to drag him for a day to the school, children have beneficial effects on overly tense elves.)

So. Eredin. The next time you decide to watch over his sleep to make sure he is all right, do remember to take a blanket with yourself. He sounded worried the last time he mentioned that.

Good luck.

Narë of Imladris.

*disappears from the window*

*Eredin, utterly frozen in place, cocoa cup halfway to his lips, ears burning so brightly they might rival the dawn.*

W-Wait— Lindir was… worried? About me? Because I— because I fell asleep while making sure he was resting properly?

Oh. Oh dear.

*Clears throat, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, looking thoroughly flustered*

—I—I was not watching over him! Not in a strange way! I was merely ensuring that he… well, that he actually slept instead of working himself into an early departure to the Halls of Mandos!

Which, frankly, is a noble duty. A necessary duty. Someone must do it!

But I… I didn’t think he noticed. Or— worried? I just—oh. I did not mean to be a cause for concern.

*Presses hands against burning face*

And—and the rest of what you said! Waxing poetics? About me? Oh Valar. I am going to perish where I stand. I do not—do I make him feel safe? He is always the one steadying others, offering a firm hand and calm presence—oh, this is—this is a lot.

*Breathes in. Breathes out. Sips cocoa. Fails to regain composure.*

I—I will bring a blanket next time. I—yes.

Oh, but what if he notices? Oh, but he already has. Oh.

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.

Hey friends! 👋 Just popping in to let you all know I posted my first Eredin x Lindir fic! 🍫✨

If you’re into chocolate theft, petty vengeance, and Lindir being the world’s most long-suffering elf, you might want to check it out! 💙🐎 Hope you enjoy it, and as always, thank you all for the love and support!💙

Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir are also involved!

Be chased through the woods by an extremely determined squirrel for unknown reasons.

Be forced to babysit Arwen’s pet rabbit, who hates you for no apparent reason.

Ah. Dear anon of the city of Ymous, you have presented me with a choice, and yet, I must tell you—it is not a hypothetical.

It is a reality I live.

Arwen already possesses a rabbit.

A most adorable, undeniably fluffy creature with ears as soft as clouds and the appearance of something that should be sweet-tempered and affectionate.

And yet. AND YET.

This tiny beast loathes me with every fiber of its impossibly soft being. Its name, most deceivingly gentle, is Lótilassë. A poetic name for a creature that has, on more than one occasion, attempted to end me.

I do not know what crime I have committed to earn Lótilassë’s eternal grudge. Perhaps I once offended her by existing too close to her designated area of dominion (which is, apparently, everywhere).

Perhaps my scent displeases her.

Perhaps she simply knows that I am weak-willed when it comes to bunnies and will adore her regardless of how much she disapproves of me.

She growls at me. Growls. Like a tiny, fluffy warg.

She has boxed my ankles with her little paws. She has lunged at me when I attempted to refill her food bowl. She has tried to chew through my robe, perhaps in an attempt to make me feel as powerless as she believes me to be. And yet, when Arwen holds her? Sweetness incarnate. A darling, an angel, the very vision of innocence.

Let me tell you of one of the many times Lótilassë, the fluffiest terror in all of Imladris, made it abundantly clear that I am but a tolerated presence in her world.

It was a peaceful afternoon. The sun filtered through the leaves in golden dapples, birds trilled their songs, the gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, and for once, I had settled in the gardens with a book, fully intending to enjoy the tranquility of the moment.

But I was not alone.

Lótilassë had been placed outside for her supervised frolic, and I, foolish and full of hope, thought: Perhaps today. Perhaps today she will accept me as one of her own.

And so, in my infinite wisdom, I did what any logical being would do—I offered her a treat. A simple, harmless offering. A fresh sprig of parsley, which I knew she adored.

She stared at it. Then at me. Then at it again.

I thought, for one blissful moment, that she might accept my peace offering. But no. Instead, she bit the parsley, yanked it out of my hand, and THREW IT TO THE SIDE, as if to say, I could have taken this myself, you insignificant worm.

And then she lunged.

I barely had time to react before she was at my robe, biting the hem—not enough to tear it, no, but enough to make it very clear that this was a warning. A statement. A declaration of my continued unworthiness.

I yelped. I moved away. She followed. She followed.

Now, dear reader, I would like to remind you that she is a rabbit. A small, fluffy, objectively adorable rabbit. And yet, as I retreated, she advanced, unrelenting in her silent fury. I stood, thinking perhaps she wanted my seat. She did not take my seat. She merely stared, victorious, as I surrendered my place in the gardens and retreated to safety.

Arwen, of course, laughed when she found me later. “She’s just asserting her dominance,” she said, as if that should comfort me.

I still love Lótilassë. I still dote upon her. But let it be known—this is her world. I am merely surviving in it.