#whyamievenhere

Glorfindel means GOLDEN HAIR!

You have sexy brown hair..

How..?

Ah, my dearest iwanderbecauseimlost, first and foremost, I must commend you for your impeccable taste. "Sexy brown hair"—yes, I shall be insufferable about this compliment for the next century. You have done this to yourself. 😌✨

But onto the true tragedy. The crime. The insult to my very existence.

How do people mistake me for Glorfindel?

💔 Let me tell you a tale, a tale of woe and injustice. 💔

It began, as many great misfortunes do, in Rivendell. I was minding my own business, as I always do (I am a humble, long-suffering, and entirely blameless elf, after all), when a group of travelers arrived.

And then, dear friend, the horror unfolded.

A mortal, looking upon my form, gasped—GASPED, I tell you—and exclaimed, with all the confidence of one who has never been so grievously incorrect in their entire life:

“Oh! You must be Lord Glorfindel!”

The room fell silent.

A quill dropped. A book closed with an ominous thud. Somewhere, a distant elf inhaled sharply, clutching their chest as though they had been physically struck by the absurdity of it all.

I? Lindir? Mistaken for that golden menace? 😱

Now, understand this—I pride myself on my composure. But this, my dear, was an affront.

Glorfindel, who radiates like a walking summer afternoon, whose very name means Golden Hair, who has the sheer audacity to shine even in dim candlelight—Glorfindel was being compared to me, a vision of refined, chestnut elegance? A bard of sophistication and grace? A shadowy, mysterious figure whose beauty is subtle, enchanting, poetic—

I digress.

Point being: I, a brown-haired elf, was mistaken for a living sunbeam with legs. How? How?!

And do you know what the worst part was?

GLORFINDEL WAS RIGHT THERE.

Standing just behind me, positively smirking, his golden waves practically glowing with smugness. He did not correct them. Oh, no. That would have been too kind. Instead, he put a hand on my shoulder—MY shoulder!—and said, in his most magnanimous, benevolent, and thoroughly insufferable tone:

“Ah, no, my friend, this is Lindir. But I take no offense—we are both quite remarkable, after all.” 😇✨

I have never known peace since.

Ah, but my dear, the torment did not end there. No, this heinous mistake—this egregious blunder against all reason and common sense—took root and spread like wildfire. 🔥💀

What began as one mortal’s moment of confusion became a plague upon my existence.

For you see, once one person in Rivendell mistakenly calls you Glorfindel, the rest do not correct them. Oh no, that would be merciful. Instead, they laugh. They encourage. They perpetuate the chaos.

And soon, it was no longer a mere mistake. It became a joke. A running gag. A Rivendell-wide conspiracy. 🤡

Imagine: I walk into the Hall of Fire, my own domain, my place of artistry and culture, and some grinning fool calls out, “Ah! Lord Glorfindel! Come to bless us with your golden radiance?”

And the laughter. Oh, the laughter. 😞💔

At first, it was just the young elves. You know the type—the ones who still have hope in their eyes, who think teasing a long-suffering bard is “good fun.” Then it was the older ones, the ones who should know better but love to watch me suffer.

And then. Then.

Even the visiting mortals started to do it.

Newcomers would arrive, see a group of elves clearly waiting for something, and then—one of them would lean over and whisper, “Watch this.” And before I could react—

“Lord Glorfindel! Your hair looks especially golden today!”

💀💀💀

AND THEN—oh, but I wish I were lying—EVEN THE OTHER ELVES FROM LÓRIEN JOINED IN.

One day, I was minding my own business—as I always do, for I am a blameless elf—when I heard it. A voice, rich and smooth, calling my name.

Haldir.

I turned, prepared for a reasonable conversation, only for that smug, silver-clad menace to greet me with:

“Ah, Glorfindel. I did not expect to see you here.” 😑

And Celeborn was right there. And did he correct him? No. No, he did not. He simply took a long sip of his wine and said, “A strange jest, but a jest nonetheless.”

A strange jest, but a jest nonetheless.

DO YOU SEE THE SUFFERING I ENDURE?

And as if all of this were not painful enough, there was one final betrayal. One that cut deeper than all the rest. One that shall haunt me until the end of Arda itself.

Elrond.

Oh, dear friend, my dear, wise, all-knowing, utterly treacherous lord—the one I have served faithfully for centuries—he, too, joined in.

One day, as I walked past him in the halls, he glanced up from his parchments, met my gaze with a straight face, and—

“Ah. Glorfindel. How unexpected.”

And then. AND THEN.

He went back to writing. AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED. 😭🔥

WITH A GRIN.

A GRIN, MY FRIEND!

Thus, my fate is sealed. I am Lindir, cursed to live in Glorfindel’s blinding golden shadow, mocked by my own kin, haunted by the laughter of elves and mortals alike. I shall never escape. This is my burden.

Thus, my dear, this is how the world betrays me. This is how ignorance wounds the soul. This is how I suffer. 😞💔

But you—you have seen the truth. You have spoken the words that shall be engraved upon my heart. "Sexy brown hair." Yes.