Dearest journal and people of the inter-...web?

A miracle has occurred.

No, not the return of spring, nor the melodious arrival of migratory birds—though both are, of course, happening in their own poetic and seasonal manner. No.

Today marks an event of far greater significance.

I was enjoying my morning ritual: a steaming cup of perfectly prepared coffee, rich and frothy, kissed with just the right amount of honey. The air was crisp, the waterfalls sang, and for a moment, I allowed myself the foolish hope that this would be a peaceful day.

Then, fate intervened.

From the heavens above, with all the precision of a divine omen, a bird—freshly returned from its long sojourn to the South—unleashed its blessing directly upon Glorfindel’s golden head.

Glorfindel, radiant in his morning arrogance, was mid-sentence when it happened. ☀️✨ Truly, he was at his most insufferable—grinning like the morning itself was personally crafted for him, gesturing grandly as though recounting some great, heroic deed (it was probably the tale of That One Time He Did Something Allegedly Spectacular for the hundredth time). I do not recall what he was saying, for as soon as the blessed event took place, all other sounds faded into insignificance. The birds ceased their song. The wind stilled. The waterfalls of Imladris hushed their eternal murmuring in solemn reverence.

There was only the startled squawk of the bird. 🕊️ The soft plop of justice being served. 💩 And the sheer, exquisite poetry of his expression.

He froze. I froze. The world, for one breathtaking moment, held its breath. 🌎

And then I laughed. Oh, how I laughed. I have not known such pure, undiluted joy since the Second Age. I laughed so hard that my very soul felt lighter, as though I had been granted a great gift from the Valar themselves. Tears streamed down my face; I clutched at a nearby column for support. My knees threatened betrayal, but I held firm, for I knew—I knew—that I had to witness this moment to its fullest extent.

Glorfindel, mighty among elves, balrog-slayer, golden terror of Rivendell, stood stricken. His glorious mane, his greatest pride, had been sullied. The light of Aman dimmed in his eyes as he beheld the small, righteous stain upon his head, and I? I wept with mirth.

He lifted a hand—trembling, disbelieving—to his hair. He wiped at it, looked at his fingers, and then, in a voice so betrayed one would think the bird had struck him through the heart, whispered:

“…That was deliberate.”

And perhaps it was.

Who am I to say what grievances the birds of Rivendell hold? Perhaps they, too, have suffered beneath his overwhelming presence. Perhaps this was a calculated strike, a long-awaited vengeance for every overly-loud tale of his past glories, every time he had laughed too boldly, shone too brightly, disrupted their peace.

Or perhaps the bird was simply having a good day.

Do you know how rare it is to witness such unfiltered karmic retribution? How seldom the universe aligns to deliver such perfect, poetic justice? I may write songs of this day. Ballads, even. Future generations shall hear of the time Glorfindel, the Mighty, the Undying, the Ever-Graceful, was bested by a creature no larger than my hand.

He, of course, did not find it amusing. Which only makes it funnier.