#whatdoeshelknow

If not, alas, he will need some more prodding. If yes, then I do hope it went well, he had not called me back after I left him to brood with some liquid courage in hand.

Alas! Have this. *places a wrapped package on the windowsill* It's five kilograms of cooking chocolate. If you melt it down you can have hot chocolate of your dreams.

*Narë smiles, something vaguely unsettling in her eyes. Is it that she is somehow in your window on the third floor, hanging with one hand off of the windowsill above?* Have fun, young one. Life is your oyster. How is that book going, by the way? I have more embarassing Glorfindel-featuring stories if you wish for them, not all of which are untrue.

Narë,

Firstly, let me begin by expressing my utter astonishment and slight horror (admiration) at the sheer quantity of chocolate you have just… casually deposited upon my windowsill. Five kilograms.

That is not a gift; that is a life-altering event.

I do not know whether to melt it down and ascend to a higher plane of existence or to fear the inevitable cocoa-induced euphoria (or sickness) that awaits me should I attempt to consume it all in one sitting.

Secondly, regarding your inquiry about Lindir and this supposed conversation—no, he has not spoken to me. However, I have noticed him staring at me. Several times. It is deeply unnerving. I will be minding my own business, diligently copying a scroll, and suddenly, I look up—and there he is. Watching. With an expression that can only be described as vaguely troubled contemplation.

Please tell me directly what this conversation was supposed to be about. I ask this not out of impatience, but out of sheer survival instinct. My Lord Lindir has yet to approach me about it, but given the increasingly long, pensive stares he keeps casting in my direction, I am beginning to fear that it is something dire.

He looks at me as if:

He is mentally rehearsing a script but keeps forgetting his lines.

He suspects that I already know what this is about (I do not).

He is wondering if perhaps, through sheer willpower, he can telepathically send the information to me instead of saying it out loud.

He is debating whether he can just… never bring it up and hope the issue resolves itself.

I cannot live like this. Every time he approaches, I tense in preparation, only for him to give a tiny sigh, shake his head, and walk away. My nerves are already fragile as they are—I am one more aborted attempt away from dissolving into a puddle of anxiety.

For the love of all things Elven and holy, just tell me what it is.

Also, Narë—why are you on my windowsill? We are on the third floor. How are you holding on with one hand? Why are you holding on with one hand?

Am I meant to offer assistance, or would that be insulting? I fear if I question it further, reality itself may unravel.

As for the book—ah. Yes. It progresses, but slowly, as all things do when you are a scribe prone to fretting over phrasing, rewriting entire passages, and having crises over comma placement. But I must confess, your offer of more embarrassing Glorfindel stories is deeply tempting. You cannot simply dangle such an opportunity before me and expect me not to inquire. Tell me everything.