#thisiswhyihavetrustissues

I have not heard of the ‘Lindircident.’ And yet, even as I say this, I am filled with a deep, instinctual dread. 😐

For experience has taught me that when my name is attached to an "incident," it is rarely a good thing. It is never, say, "The Lindir Grand Appreciation Festival," or "The Day Everyone Was Very Nice to Lindir."

No, it is always some cursed, absurd, and entirely undeserved ordeal that I have either suffered through or—worse—been accused of causing.

So tell me, dear inquirer. What tragic, embarrassing, or utterly ridiculous tale has now become legend in my name? What fresh chaos has the world woven around me, like some twisted bard’s ballad I did not consent to be part of?

Was it the Great Glorfindel Debacle, wherein I was once again mistaken for him despite having precisely none of his ridiculous golden locks? (I swear, if one more traveler asks me for battle advice, I shall scream.)

Was it the Unfortunate Music Critique, in which I politely informed a certain lord that his ‘singing’ could, in fact, summon fell beasts? (I stand by this assessment.)

Or—Valar help me—was it The Incident That Shall Not Be Named? The one involving an excessively dramatic cloak flourish, a miscalculated turn, and a series of events that led to an entire table of diplomatic documents being upended into a fountain? (It was not my fault. The floor was slippery. And no, I shall not elaborate further.)

The media: lol time for some ✨anxiety triggers✨

Since so many have asked… since whispers have spread like leaves on the wind… since the injustice I suffered must be known—here, at last, is the truth about the great and terrible rift between Glorfindel and me. 🎭💔

Ah, my dear and most steadfast friend, you ask why I hold such disdain for Glorfindel? Why I lace my words with the undeniable truth of his unbearable nature? Why, even in the joy of poetic exchange, his name must be spoken with a sigh so heavy it could fell a mighty oak? 🌲💔

Sit, sit—I must unburden myself of this tale, lest it fester in my soul like an off-key note in an otherwise flawless melody. 🎶

It was a peaceful evening in Rivendell. The stars shimmered, the waterfalls sang, and I—humble, diligent Lindir—was tending to my beloved lute. Ah, my most cherished instrument, carved with care, tuned with devotion, a companion more faithful than any golden-haired MENACE could ever be. 💕

And then. Then, my friend.

He arrived.

Glorfindel, in all his blazing arrogance, swept into the hall with that infuriatingly effortless grace, grinning like he had just won a battle (against what, I do not know—perhaps against humility itself?). ☀️

And what did he do? Did he admire my craftsmanship from a respectful distance? Did he, perhaps, ask to hear a song, as any civilized person would? NO. NO, HE DID NOT. 😤

He seized my lute. With his own two golden bear hands—which have no business touching such delicate things—he plucked it from my grasp! “Ah, Lindir,” he declared, his voice positively dripping with mischief, “let me play you a tune!”

Now, my friend, I ask you—have you ever heard the sound of a tree screaming? Have you ever witnessed a harp weeping? For that is what followed. He strummed—nay, attacked—the strings as if he were swinging a sword in battle! As if the concept of gentle precision was as foreign to him as the idea of modesty! 😱

And then—the worst of it.

With a grand, sweeping flourish, as though he were some great bard, he attempted a spin. A spin, my friend. Whilst holding my lute.

And the headstock snapped clean off.

It was like watching the fall of Númenor. Like seeing the light of the Two Trees fade all over again. My beloved lute, ruined in an instant by that golden terror. 💀

And do you know what he said? Do you?

“Oh dear. I think I can fix that.”

Fix it. FIX IT.

As if his great and mighty hands—made for warfare, not craftsmanship—could ever mend the destruction he wrought upon my delicate, irreplaceable instrument!

Friends, elves, unfortunate witnesses to my suffering, gather close. Today, we mourn not just the loss of my beloved lute, but the loss of something far greater—my faith in a certain golden-haired menace. Once, long ago (3 years ago), I believed there was some good in him. Some shred of grace beneath the blinding, solar-flare levels of arrogance. I was wrong. So very, very wrong. 😞

For years, I tolerated his shining presence, endured his endless dramatics, withstood his every smug grin and overly enthusiastic greeting. I turned the other cheek when he sang (loudly, off-key) in the halls. I held my tongue when he tossed his hair in slow motion like some kind of overgrown Lórien shampoo commercial. I even, on occasion, responded when he called me “Lindy.” And what did I receive in return for my patience? My kindness?

BETRAYAL. TREACHERY. THE DESTRUCTION OF ALL I HELD DEAR. 🎭💀

With his own two reckless, battle-hardened hands, he took from me what can never be replaced. He thought himself capable of artistry, of music—nay, of subtlety—and in his hubris, he reached for my lute. And in that moment, dear friends, our friendship was doomed. 😔

SNAP.

The sound still echoes in my mind. The severing of strings. The shattering of trust. The silence where once there was music. My lute—gone. My peace—gone. My will to live—hanging by a thread.

Oh, how my spirit withered. He spoke those words with confidence, as if glue could repair the chasm now gaping between us. As if mere craftsmanship could mend the fractures in my very soul. As if I would ever, in this lifetime or the next, entrust him with anything fragile ever again.

And so, we stand here today, not just to remember what was, but to accept what must now be. My friendship with Glorfindel, once a tenuous and reluctant thing, is no more. Buried beneath the wreckage of my beloved instrument, beneath the ruins of my trust. Let the record show that I tried. I endured. I hoped. And I was let down. 😔

Stop playing with my feelings DAMNIT