Ah, Lord of Lothlórien, esteemed tree-admirer and wearer of velvets so fine they make the stars feel underdressed—

Firstly, I am honoured by your request! To be asked to teach you, Celeborn of Doriath, of all elves, the harp—well. My knees went weak. My quill fell from my hand. I had to sit down and sip something calming.

Now. Would I teach you the harp?

Yes. Absolutely. Of course. But— And I must stress this—if and only if Lord Elrond allows me a single uninterrupted afternoon in which I am not: • Organising the archives, • Hunting down mysteriously vanished ink shipments, • Or attempting to decode the inventory list Erestor wrote entirely in Quenya cursive while sleep-deprived.

If I am granted this sacred window of time, I would delight in showing you the strings.

Imagine it: we sit in the sun-dappled courtyard, a pair of harps gleaming like captured moonlight. I demonstrate a soft trill, and you—after several noble attempts and one minor string-related disaster—replicate it with surprising grace. Birds begin to gather. Glorfindel drifts dramatically through the scene. A squirrel applauds.

It could be beautiful.