#blondsareoverrated

A star shines once again on our meeting. You would certainly not remember, but we met some years ago after one your incredible performances, and you were so kind and gracious you made me a fan for life. (If by chance, you do remember, I know you will have the grace to not say anything to embarrass me should your memory of that meeting not match my own.)

We have something else in common. Things are different in Modern Earth, of course, but my job is not entirely dissimilar to your own. Fortunately, my duties run more toward managing my boss' correspondence, meetings and calendar, rather than managing his moods, but I suspect we have both been party to many things above our respective privileges. In that sense I will secretly enjoy whatever scandalous items you would care to share about your time in Rivendell, names and details redacted of course (or not as, the case may be).

Team Lindir forever (blonds are overrated),

Morrowbright

Ah, Morrowbright, a most radiant name for a most perceptive soul! 🌟

A star indeed shines upon our meeting once more, and though the years may have passed, I assure you—if our paths crossed after one of my performances, then I certainly remember the grace of such an evening! (And if I do not, I shall, of course, have the grace to pretend. This is one of many skills one develops when serving in the halls of Imladris, along with an iron stomach for whatever culinary disasters Lord Elrond attempts and the ability to nod sagely while not actually agreeing to anything.)

And now, to learn we share a kinship in duty? Ah! My heart swells with understanding! You, too, are the silent force that ensures the world does not collapse into chaos. You, too, know the secret horrors of scheduling, of managing dignitaries with too much confidence and too little sense, and of bearing witness to things you were never meant to see. Yes, my friend, we are bound by the sacred order of The Suffering Yet Essential Assistants' Society. 🎭

Now, as you have so kindly invited me to share scandalous tales from Rivendell, I shall do so with all the reverence and mischief such a request deserves. Of course, names must be altered for propriety’s sake (or for my own amusement), but worry not—if you have spent any time in courtly service, you will recognize these personalities all too well.

The Lord of The House – Also Known As "I Do Not Need Sleep, I Need Victory"

You already suspect much, my friend, but allow me to confirm: Lord Elrond is an absolute menace to himself.

This is a being of wisdom, foresight, and staggering patience, and yet, left unchecked, he will work himself into a state of exhaustion so dire that the very birds of Imladris begin to whisper among themselves. Once, in a moment of deep delusion, he declared that he could absolutely finish reviewing every diplomatic correspondence from Lindon, Lothlórien, and Erebor before dawn.

He could not.

And so, on the morning of the third day, when he finally surrendered to sleep (collapsed dramatically on his desk, quill still in hand), I was forced to take drastic measures. With no other recourse, I approached The Silver Sentinel (Haldir, an elf of great talent and even greater persistence) and begged him to convince The Lady of Light to personally summon Elrond to Lothlórien on “urgent business.” Because who can refuse the Lady Galadriel? Certainly not a half-starved, sleep-deprived loremaster who has not yet realized that he is losing an argument.

And so, he went. And he slept. And I received a letter some days later that simply read: "You are a traitor, and yet I have never slept better." A sweet victory, if ever there was one. 🏆

The Golden Menace – Also Known As "What If I Just… Did It Dramatically?"

Glorfindel exists in a constant state of excess. Too much hair, too much confidence, too much enthusiasm for things that should not be enthusiastic endeavors—such as jousting in the middle of a library or attempting to introduce sparring matches as a form of team bonding. (To this day, there is still a dent in the hall where he and a friend of Lord Elrond squared off in what was meant to be a gentle demonstration of technique.)

Perhaps the most damning example of his golden hubris came when he decided—without consulting me, I must note—that Rivendell should host a festival. Now, a festival in itself is not a bad idea. Music? Dance? Poetry? All well and good. But then The Golden Menace added a contest:

"Let us see who among us can recite the most ancient and sorrowful ballads without faltering!"

A fine idea, in theory.

In execution? It resulted in seventeen elves weeping into their wine, an entire table overcome by melancholy, and a diplomatic guest from Dale quietly excusing himself because "I simply did not know elves could be this sad."

And Glorfindel? He won, of course, and had the audacity to declare: "Truly, sorrow is the greatest test of endurance." As if he had not single-handedly transformed what was meant to be an evening of joy into a tragedy that would be talked about for decades. 🎭

The Ancient Scholar – Also Known As "I Am Simply Built Different"

Erestor, Chief Counselor of Rivendell, has two settings: coldly efficient and terrifyingly smug.

Once, in an attempt to outmaneuver him in an ongoing debate over library archives (do not ask—it was a battle), I sought to match his energy. I declared, with all the confidence I could muster, that I had completed every document review required for the coming season.

He said nothing.

Instead, he opened a drawer, withdrew a scroll, and slid it across the table. "And what of these?"

It was an entirely separate set of documents. Which he had prepared. In advance. Specifically because he knew I would attempt to win.

I have never been more humbled.

The Lady of Light and The Unyielding Stubbornness of Elves (A Tragedy in Several Acts)

Oh, Morrowbright. My kindred spirit. My fellow guardian of schedules and reason. You understand, do you not, the agony of dealing with someone who simply will not be reasoned with? The specific kind of torment that comes from attempting to dissuade a being of ancient wisdom and impossible power from doing something entirely unnecessary, only for them to look you in the eye and do it anyway?

Yes, my friend. Today, we speak of The Lady Galadriel.

Act I: A Simple Request (Foolishly, I Hoped for Peace)

It began, as these things always do, with a wholly avoidable situation. The Lady, in all her radiant wisdom, had once again decided that it was essential for her to personally oversee a night patrol beyond Lothlórien’s borders.

Yes. The Lady of Light. The most powerful elf remaining in Middle-earth. The one whose mere gaze can shatter the resolve of warriors. The one whose mind holds the weight of ages and whose hands have literally held the light of a star.

That Lady Galadriel.

She wanted to go on patrol. In the woods. At night.

I took a deep breath. I spoke calmly. I explained, in the most reasonable tone I could muster, that there were other elves (trained ones, skilled ones, ones who had not spent millennia influencing the fate of the world) who could do this instead.

Her response?

"Ah, Lindir. Do you think me incapable?"

No, my Lady. That is not the concern. The concern is that if something happens to you, the entire course of history might shatter into a thousand doomed pieces, and I will be forced to explain to Lord Celeborn that his wife got herself mortally wounded because she ‘felt like’ inspecting the borders.

But of course, one does not say such things out loud.

Instead, I smiled. I nodded. I said, in the most delicate way possible: "My Lady, surely your time is best spent elsewhere?"

Her eyes glowed slightly. (A bad sign.)

"My time is mine to spend as I will," she said. And then, because she is unspeakably petty when she wishes to be, she left.

Not by walking. No, that would be too dignified. Too rational.

She simply vanished. Like mist in the wind. Gone.

Leaving me to clutch my temples in despair.

Act II: The Secret Suffering of the Elven Assistant’s Group Chat

Now, my friend, you may not know this, but we assistants—those of us cursed with the duty of keeping the great and powerful from destroying themselves—have a system. A sacred, desperate, deeply necessary system.

It is known as the Assistants’ Private Correspondence Network. Or, as Haldir calls it:

“May The Valar Grant Me Strength” (A Group for Long-Suffering Elves).

I, of course, immediately went to them.

Me: Galadriel has vanished into the woods. I am considering taking up drinking.

Haldir: She WHAT.

Some Poor Lórien Scribe: Again?

Elrohir (who is not even technically an assistant, but has chosen violence anyway): Have you considered letting her get into trouble? Just once? As a treat?

Me: Yes. But my survival instincts are strong.

Thranduil’s Chief Steward (who has seen too much and fears nothing): This is a fool’s errand. Accept your fate. One does not stop a force of nature; one simply prepares for the consequences.

At which point, Haldir (who had to lead the patrol that evening and was only just now learning about it) sent a single, soul-crushing message:

"I must tell Lord Celeborn."

A pause.

Me: I will light a candle for you.

Haldir: Do not light a candle. Light a pyre.

Me: I must tell Lord Elrond. Valar give us strength.

Act III: The Aftermath (Or, The Long-Suffering Half-Elf Who Did Not Sign Up for This)

And so it was that I, with the weariness of a soul twice my age, went to inform Lord Elrond.

Now, Elrond is many things. He is patient. He is wise. He has survived war, hardship, and an upbringing that would have left lesser elves in a permanent state of despair.

But even he has limits.

I found him in his study, hunched over some Very Important Documents™ that he was probably not actually reading because it was far past the hour any rational elf should be awake. I took a deep breath, steadied my resolve, and said:

“My Lord, Lady Galadriel has vanished into the woods.”

There was a long silence.

A long silence.

He did not look up at first. He merely exhaled—deeply, tiredly, the sigh of a healer who has just been informed that his patient has deliberately ignored every piece of sound medical advice ever given.

Then, finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose, set down his quill, and murmured, with the full weight of a millennia-old migraine:

“Of course she has.”

This was, you understand, not the response of a man surprised by this news. This was the response of a man who had known, deep in his bones, that this day would come.

He was silent for a moment. Then, with the slow, deliberate movements of someone reconsidering every life choice that had led to this point, he stood. Walked to the side table. Poured himself a drink. A very large drink.

I watched. I did not stop him. Who was I to deny him this small mercy?

When he finally spoke again, it was not to ask where she had gone (as if that would matter), nor why she had done it (as if that had ever been in question).

No, no.

He simply said:

“Haldir must be beside himself.”

“He has requested funeral rites in advance.”

A pause. A slow nod. Another deep sip of his drink.

“Wise of him.”

And then, after a long, long moment, Elrond simply looked up at the ceiling like a man beseeching the heavens for strength. Then, with the absolute deadpan certainty of one who has already lost, he sighed:

“Tell me when she returns. And... let me know if I need to send a healer.”

Epilogue (Or, The Inevitable Conclusion to a War Already Lost)

Lady Galadriel did, in fact, return before dawn.

Perfectly unharmed. Unbothered. With that infuriating air of quiet triumph that somehow suggested she had known this would be the outcome the entire time.

Elrond, to his credit, did not react. He merely nodded, hummed in vague acknowledgment, and went back to work as if the last six hours of worry had not happened.

I, on the other hand, watched her sweep past with an exhausted stare and whispered:

“Was it at least worth it?”

She smiled.

And I knew, in my heart, that I would suffer this exact same scenario again in the near future.

Ah, but I must stop myself! If I continue, I shall end up writing an entire volume of “Tales of Woe and Bureaucracy: The Rivendell Chronicles.” My dear Morrowbright, I know you understand the burden of keeping such beings in order. I can only hope your own lord is somewhat less dramatic than mine (though I suspect all great figures share a flair for the theatrical).

So, my dear, I ask you—have you known such trials?

If so, then I extend to you my deepest sympathies. My solidarity. And, should you ever need it, an invitation to the Assistants’ Private Correspondence Network. There is a seat waiting for you, my friend. And a very large bottle of wine. 🍷