Elrond is not completely without self-awareness. He does get, yes, that it seems like the giantest of cliches to want to keep his daughter here, in his world. To resist all the "you've got to let her go" advice he gets after one of Galadriel's "psychic" sessions, which as far as he can tell consist entirely of staring slackjawed at her reflection in the polished brass of the espresso machine.

But he just wants Arwen to be happy and safe. Here in this coffeeshop where she grew up, doing her homework at the corner table during poetry slams, painting really rather awful treehouse murals on the walls to go with the ceiling he'd decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. He can't help wanting her here forever, his little girl, teaching the hipsters to play paper football, getting pulled up onto the tiny corner stage to play tambourine with various folkie bands named after wasting diseases.

Out in the world there is evil. There are wicked men and monsters and disappointing biscotti. In here everything is perfect because he madeit that way...or, at least, what isn't perfect is amusing.

And every time that man comes in, the one Elrond has secretly nicknamed "Would a Shampoo Kill You?", Arwen glows like the ceiling stars, and Elrond knows it's just a matter of time.