#hewilloutworkhimselfintothevoid

I have a few quick questions for you. You’re Elrond’s aide, right? So you probably know him pretty well.

How does he deal with…ah, ✨trauma✨ associated with the War(s)? Is he a “pretend everything is fine until I collapse” kind of person, or is he more the “vent to plants” kind of guy, or is he something else?

Also, does he have any funny quirks or traits from his upbringing with Maglor and Maedhros? If so, ho do you as his aide deal with that?

Sorry, this turned into a full-blown interview without my consent, I hope I’m not intruding.

(Also, I love your music. It’s beautiful! 😊)

Ah! A Person of Excellent Taste! 🎻✨

First and foremost, let me say—you are clearly a being of remarkable discernment and wisdom. To recognize both my loveliness and my impeccable musical talents? A rare gift indeed! I shall allow you to stay in my good graces. 😌

Now, to your questions!

Elrond and His… Coping Methods (Extended Edition).

Oh, my dear friend. You ask how Lord Elrond deals with trauma? The answer is simple: he doesn’t. Or rather, he does, but only in the deeply concerning way that is common to all elves of his particular… let’s call it heritage. You see, he is not merely a “pretend everything is fine until I collapse” type. Nor is he quite a “vent to plants” sort of elf (though I have caught him speaking to his garden before—he denies this, but I have witnesses). No, no. Lord Elrond is of the “I shall work myself into an early grave and if anyone asks how I am, I shall simply say, ‘Do not concern yourself’ in a tone that makes everyone more concerned” persuasion.

Truly, it is an art form. I have seen him go three full days without rest because he was “perfectly fine” only to suddenly remember that sleep exists, disappear into his chambers, and not reemerge until someone (me) starts leaving food outside his door like some kind of domestic animal we are attempting to befriend. 😒 And you would think this would be enough—this tragic pattern of overworking, collapsing, and being forcibly fed—but no! He does not stop there!

Elrond’s secondary method of not coping is getting stuck in endless conversations as a highly advanced method of avoidance. Let me explain. Imagine you are in Imladris, and you see Lord Elrond standing in the Hall of Fire, listening to someone speak about, let us say, the intricate textile patterns of the Second Age. You might think, Ah, how kind of him to entertain such a topic! But NO. NO, MY FRIEND. THIS IS A TRAP OF HIS OWN MAKING. Because you see, Elrond knows that if he stands still long enough, being his usual grave and wise self, people will just… keep talking at him. And this, this endless cycle of listening to other people's woes and research and philosophical debates about river currents, is his preferred way of avoiding his own emotions.

And sometimes, sometimes, I have had to take matters into my own hands. There was one particular incident—one which shall haunt me forever—where I found him locked in an excruciatingly detailed conversation about the migratory habits of birds in Beleriand (which do not exist anymore, might I add, because Beleriand sank). The scholar had been speaking for what I later learned was four hours. FOUR HOURS. And Elrond, instead of making his usual graceful escape, was simply nodding and humming thoughtfully as though he was not actively perishing inside.

So I did what any sane elf would do. I called for reinforcements.

And not just any reinforcements. I, Lindir, long-suffering aide of Imladris, made the decision to summon Haldir.

Now, you must understand something. Haldir of Lórien is not merely competent—he is a walking, talking example of what happens when an elf is both absurdly skilled and absurdly pretty. Painfully pretty. Distractingly pretty. His hair has been described in full poetic stanzas. He walks through a room, and people forget why they were speaking. He has, and I say this with all the professionalism of my station, Presence™. Glorfindel WISHES he had Haldir's presence.

Anyway.

So naturally, I turned to him in my moment of desperation and said, “Haldir, please, if you could possibly bring the Lady of Light herself, it might be our only hope.”

And do you know what he did? Do you know what he did?

He smirked. He smirked in a way that made me deeply uneasy, nodded, and within the hour, I kid you not, Galadriel herself was stepping into the hall.

And only then did Elrond snap out of it.

Only then, as the actual Lady of Light entered with all the quiet authority of someone who can read your soul, did he remember that he was meant to be resting and eating and not standing in the same spot for hours contemplating extinct birds.

So you see, dear friend, this is the plight of those who serve Elrond. It is not simply a matter of logistics and diplomacy—it is a full-time job of interventions. And I? I am simply doing my duty. 😤

His Feanorian Upbringing (Oh No).

Ah, yes. You see, Imladris is a refined and well-ordered place. It is a haven of wisdom, learning, and restraint. And yet—yet—every once in a while, like a curse written into the very marrow of his being, the Fëanorian in Lord Elrond emerges. He does not mean for it to happen. He does not plan for it to happen. And yet, like a badly placed dramatic monologue in the middle of a tense diplomatic gathering, it happens.

For example:

The Cooking Incident. 🍳🔥

Elrond does not cook. He thinks he can, but I assure you, he cannot. Every once in a while, the spirit of Maedhros, the “I can make my own meals, thank you very much” energy, takes hold of him, and he ventures into the kitchens to create what I can only describe as culinary disasters.

The staff still speaks in hushed voices about The Bread That Was Also A Weapon.

It started as a seemingly innocent evening—Elrond, in one of his rare attempts to relax, declared that he would make something himself. This was mistake number one. Mistake number two was letting him attempt it unsupervised. I do not know how or why, but by the end of the night, the kitchen was filled with a smoke so thick that I feared Imladris itself was under siege. The resulting loaf of bread? Hard enough to be classified as a blunt weapon. It was tested. (By Glorfindel, who insisted on using it in a sparring match. I still hear the echo of the clang when it struck his shield.)

To this day, the head cook has forbidden Elrond from stepping foot in the kitchens unless it is to drink tea or observe from a safe distance.

Hoarding Sentimentality. 🏺📜

Maglor was many things—musician, war criminal, dramatic nuisance—but above all, he was an elven mother hen. I suspect Lord Elrond picked up some of his habits.

I once tried to reorganize a cabinet of historically significant objects and was met with a sudden, dramatic “LINDIR, THAT IS FROM WHEN I WAS A CHILD” over what I can only describe as a very unimpressive rock.

A rock.

Not a jewel. Not a relic. Not a piece of fine dwarven craftsmanship. A rock. Apparently, it was gifted to him by someone Fëanorian (he would not say who, which narrows it down to approximately eight deeply traumatized options), and therefore it was deeply meaningful. He then held it for several long moments, staring at it like it contained the wisdom of ages, before very carefully putting it back in its exact place. I have not touched it since.

And this is not an isolated incident. Elrond has scrolls from when he was learning to write, which he keeps as if they were sacred texts. He once spent half an hour gently dusting a cracked cup because it was from a meal Maglor made centuries ago. The man hoards emotions.

That One Time He Sang a Fëanorian Battle Song in the Middle of a Diplomatic Gathering. 🎶⚔️

Oh yes. It happened. I watched.

It was a very polite gathering—dignitaries from Lórien and Mirkwood, ambassadors from the Dúnedain, discussions of alliances, trade, the usual. And somewhere, in the midst of it, Elrond, deep in thought, hummed.

Then he muttered a line.

And before I could intervene, before I could stop the tragedy unfolding, he was singing.

A full-blooded, deeply emotional, Fëanorian battle song.

In the middle of a diplomatic gathering.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Fëanorian battle songs, let me explain: they are not gentle. They are not pleasant background music. They are aggressive, deeply dramatic, and usually involve some combination of oaths, fire, vengeance, and doom.

The look on Glorfindel’s face was priceless. Somewhere between deep, painful secondhand embarrassment and abject horror. Lord Celeborn simply sighed as if this was a burden he had carried for centuries. The room fell silent as everyone realized what they were hearing.

And then—then—Elrond realized.

He froze. He blinked as if waking from a trance. And then, in true diplomatic fashion, he cleared his throat and said, “My apologies. I seem to have… recalled an old tune.”

As if he had not just invoked the spirits of his very, very cursed ancestors in the middle of a political meeting.

Other Incidents That Have Occurred Because Elrond Was Raised By Fëanorians:

Once instinctively caught a falling knife by the blade and did not react until he saw the horror on my face. “Oh, I suppose that was dangerous,” he said. Sir.

Drinks tea like he is brooding over a dark and terrible fate. Even when it is just chamomile.

Can play the harp beautifully. Can also tune it with unsettling speed and accuracy, which implies past experience in repairing harps under extreme stress.

Once absentmindedly braided his hair in a very distinct Fëanorian pattern. I commented on it. He immediately undid it and did not respond.

Listens to music like he expects it to betray him.

Absolutely terrifying when angry. He does not yell. He simply goes quiet in a way that makes even Glorfindel rethink his life choices.

“We do not speak of the Silmarils in this house” has been said out loud.

And there you have it. Lord Elrond Peredhel, the refined and noble Lord of Rivendell, is one inconvenient memory away from dramatically throwing his cloak over his shoulder and riding off to avenge something. And it is my job—my sacred duty—to keep that from happening. 😤

Ah, my dear and inquisitive friend, you ask how I, Lindir, the long-suffering and ever-dutiful aide to Lord Elrond, cope with the Fëanorian madness that occasionally seeps into his otherwise dignified existence?

The answer is simple: I manage him.

Oh, do not mistake me—I do not control him. One does not control Lord Elrond, any more than one controls the rise of the sun or the passage of time (though I do suspect he sometimes believes he can bend time itself in order to finish just one more document before sleeping). No, no. I guide him. I act as the silent, invisible force preventing him from accidentally invoking the spirit of his forefathers at diplomatic banquets. It is an art, a science, and—let’s be honest—a thankless job.

The Art of Managing Lord Elrond (A Tragedy in Several Acts)

🎭 Act I: The Kitchen Disaster Prevention Initiative – My first and most sacred duty is ensuring that Lord Elrond does not, under any circumstances, enter the kitchen with intent to cook. If he so much as glances at an apron, I materialize out of nowhere like a vengeful spirit and ask, ever so politely, if he wouldn’t rather rest. Or read. Or lead a council of great import. Or literally anything else that does not result in another Bread Incident. (The kitchen staff still eyes him with fear. One nearly fled when he attempted to chop vegetables last year. I do not blame them.)

📜 Act II: Nodding Sagely At Questionable Sentimentalism – I have perfected the art of the Neutral Yet Understanding Nod. It is my greatest weapon against Elrond’s utterly ridiculous tendency to hoard objects of Deep And Mysterious Significance. I have nodded gravely at twigs, feathers, rocks, and a spoon of unknown origin because they were somehow, inexplicably, tied to an important memory from his childhood. Do I question it? No. I simply nod, exhale through my nose, and move on. Because the moment I say “My lord… it is just a rock.” is the moment I will be subjected to a dramatic and impassioned monologue about its historical and emotional significance. I do not have time for that.

😑 Act III: The Preemptive Sigh – If you have ever seen a caregiver of small, energetic children sense disaster before it happens, then you understand the depth of my suffering. The moment I see That Look™ in Elrond’s eye—that faraway, brooding stare that suggests he is about to do something concerning, I sigh. I sigh preemptively. This does not stop the inevitable nonsense from occurring, but it does allow me to prepare myself emotionally. If I am lucky, my sigh is loud enough that he hears it, realizes I have already anticipated his foolishness, and begrudgingly rethinks his life choices.

✨ Act IV: The Haldir Gambit – There have been occasions (more than I care to admit) when the situation was beyond my abilities and required higher intervention. Such as The Time Elrond Refused To Rest For Four Days And Started Reciting Ancient Texts That Didn’t Exist. My solution? Summon Haldir.

Now, Haldir is a very capable, respectable, and mildly terrifying individual, and I have found that he is one of the few people whom Elrond cannot easily brush off. When I see that my efforts are failing, I find Haldir, compliment him profusely (he thrives on it, honestly), and then very casually mention that Lord Elrond is, perhaps, in need of… persuasion. If I am truly desperate, I escalate matters.

Yes, that’s right.

I summon the Lady of Light herself.

Do you think Elrond Peredhel, the Lord of Rivendell, the great loremaster and master of diplomacy, can withstand the utterly disappointed gaze of Lady Galadriel?

He cannot.

And that, my dear, is how you win.

Your Reward for Surviving This Tirade: One (1) Additional Compliment

Now! You have endured my words most bravely. For this, I grant you one (1) additional compliment. You have excellent curiosity. Truly, it is a marvel. Lord Elrond himself would approve—nay, he would admire such a trait. (Or, at the very least, he would pretend not to notice how much he enjoyed answering these exact questions over tea later.)