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"I don't think that is possible." Sigh. Adults. ...Or at least he is pretty sure that this is an universal phenomenon. The sample mass is too small to draw proper conclusions. "Even if you said that we could only have cake, Maedhros would look at you and you'd still make us eat them." Or the other way around. It seems to be impossible to talk both of them into letting them skip their veggies, not quickly enough to stop the other intervening while the first is being convinced.

But he'll go and wash the salad. It's not even that bad. Just. Principle. And if you can have cake...

An amused chuckle. "And don't you forget it stripling. When you are older you may understand, I suppose. But since there are only the four of us tonight, I will let you have an extra slice, if you finish all the vegetables hm?"

"And an extra slice for Elrond, too! Because if only I get an extra slice then that means that each of us only gets half an extra slice and that'd not be a whole extra slice." Because then he'd obviously share with his brother.

But his words are oddly muted, and there is a pause only filled with the sound of water on leaves as he works and thinks. "Are parents like that, too?" He can't really remember, still having been too young to look out for things like interpersonal dynamics with his own parents before being separated from them, and he can't really observe other families either.

"But of course! Far be it from me to deprive either of you. But only if you both finish your vegetables."

There is a hitch in Maglor's breathing from where he stands watching the mead come to a slow boil, but his voice is as steady as ever when he answers.

"Yes, they do tend to be."

"But you aren't parents." The hitch is not completely lost on him, but this has bothered him for a while so he pushes on. "Why are you not parents?" Because surely either Maglor or Maedhros would have mentioned if they at any point had had kids of their own.

No beloved, please, wake up! Maglor slams the door shut on the memory hastily, but not before he snaps the handle of the ladle he is using.

"Ah." His voice is quiet and almost steady. "Your pardon, Elros, would you watch the mead and make sure it does not overboil. I needs must retrieve a new ladle, it seems."

Swift strides carry him outside, where he can toss the old ladle on the midden and spare a few scant moments to wrestle down his tears before he returns inside and fetches a new one.

"We are not parents because we have no wives, Elros." Almost, almost, he manages to say it without a tremor.

When Maglor returns, Elros stands by the mead, and he has stirred it a few times, but he's mostly watched the door, and his eyes continue to follow Maglor when he enters and fetches the ladle. He doesn't understand what all of this means, only that his question must have hurt Maglor much more than he would have thought.

He wants to ask why, but that'd hurt Maglor more and he doesn't want to hurt him (not anymore, there was a time when he would have continued much differently from here, would have turned to accusing questions - did you murder your wives, too - but that is long in the past). But he needs to do something and the easiest way to do that... there is a quick, almost cautious, questioning glance at the older male's face and then Elros very carefully wraps his arms around him. Sometimes people are so sad that the only right thing to do is to hold them, especially when you can't actually do anything about their sadness.

Maglor's breath hitches again and then his arms are suddenly fiercely around Elros in an almost desperate hug.

He holds him like that a heartbeat more then straightens with sad fond smile.

"Thank you Elros. Great indeed is your heart."

If I had sons of my own, they could not be more dear to me He does not say, for Maglor learnt long ago not to wish for the impossible

"I don't know about that, but I give the best hugs! Even Elrond says so!" And when his twin admits that Elros is better at something, he obviously has to be because he'd not say that otherwise.

Just that they love each other and are very close doesn't mean that some healthy sibling rivalry doesn't figure in.

The smile is tad watery, perhaps, but it is real enough.

"Ah, well, I suppose I would have to conduct a study to see if this were true, but that was indeed a very fine specimen of a hug Elros."

Recalling that they are, in fact, still cooking he reaches across to check the mead, and nods, lifting it off the fire.

"Who do you think I should ask to help me determine if your hugs are indeed the best ones, Elros?"

He gives Maglor a look. Do they really have to test this, and who would even... he's okay with hugging Elrond, of course! Who already gave his statement (once, and who knows if he'd do it again, so better not ask there). Maedhros is not an option, he's still... no, Elros can't really see anyone hugging him. That's like hugging a kind of scary pillar (yes, Maedhros is... he can be nice, and he can be fun, and Maglor can be scary too, but... there is still a difference). Then there's Maglor, but shouldn't he already know?

"But Elrond has hugged you before, right?" He's not entirely sure right now, but he's pretty sure he should have. And what other competition is there than that of his brother?

[ Valinor has been nothing but kind to him so far, Legolas thought. When he wasn't out and about exploring with Gimli, he was meeting the other elves, slowly getting to know all those who have sailed far earlier before him or those who have never left. Never having seen the light of the trees, he can only but admire all those who had. Their glow such that it could almost outshine the stars, skin fair and their beauty immense.

The parties held in the various houses and courts, on the other hand, were most amusing and entertaining for him. It seems the constitution for wine that himself and his father possessed (or perhaps developed was the more accurate descriptor here) was still a rare trait among the elves, even the high elves of Aman. There he stood for the moment alone and unharassed, with a goblet of wine in one hand, perfectly sober among the many tipsy elves and smiling fondly. Some faces were already familiar, some others not quite, and yet others familiar only from the stories he had been told as an elfling, the rare times his father could sit him down and actually get him to listen. Those he had looked upon with great reverence, that is right up until he's approached by one of such.

To his credit, Legolas doesn't stutter or flush right away, he merely turns to glance behind him with a cocked eyebrow if there isn't anyone there instead and when he returns his look to the one he recognised as Fingon, he smiles politely and inclines his head in a greeting just as polite as his smile in the language commonly spoken here. He had to learn, of course, but it came easy. Much like a lot of other things. ]

A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

Luke has landed hard on a strange world. Again. He's confident he'll repair his ship, or someone will come and retrieve him, before too long. For now he has taken shelter from the pouring rain, sitting and looking out at it with a heatless lamp at his side. Even though he's seen rain a thousand times before, he was raised in a desert and still finds something wonderful about it.

He's a small man, not imposing by any means. One hand is larger than the other and always kept gloved. The colors he wears are dark, his face is marked with myriad tiny scars, and there is an old sorrow to him. Surprisingly graceful and nearly tireless, he misses very little.

The Force is strong with Luke. In the past, non-Jedi sensitive to strange energies pick have experienced this as something odd about him - anything from an unpleasant buzz to a steady glow to the sense that he is fascinating.

There is another out in the night, leading his horse by the reins, his features hidden by the dark and the hood pulled deep to shield himself from the rain. His steps are light, effortlessly so, even though he does not see to them being so as not even his horse's steps can be heard over the rain on the leaves.

It is the light of the lamp that draws him in, curiosity and the promise of another who feels more like his own kin than like one in alliance with the enemy guiding his steps. It is odd; he would think that this person is one of the Eldar, even more one of those that came with them across the sea; and one strong in spirit indeed, almost reminscent of the one who lead them here, of Fëanor.

But then... there is a strange quality to it, yet not one that marrs it, not one that would tell him to turn away.

Upon coming close enough, he calls out to the man. "Hail!" It is a short greeting, yet in the rain, no unnecesary words seem prudent.

In the great motion of the rain Luke can pick up on the little movements of animals, those that aren't tucked into shelter. But there is something else, something larger... something more reflective, or rather two somethings, one of whom quite outshines the other.

Luke perceives someone's sense in the Force as almost-sound, almost-touch. It changes like a face would with emotion and realization, and just like with faces, if he is not familiar with the owner the meaning of many of these changes is opaque. He stands to get a better look at the rain-blurred figures. A humanoid and some kind of equid, that's all he can tell, and the humanoid's sense is rich and heady.

"And to you," he calls back, careful but unafraid. He knows nothing about this place, it's better to be cautious. "It's drier under here. Come in!"

"Shall my horse make it as well?" It is a question not of curtesy - a horse more sturdy than impressive it is compared with most, bred for travel, not war or hunt. But it still will need more space than the shelter may have. He's stopping now, a short distance away only, not yet pushing back the hood, his coat hiding most of him; but his stance is peaceful, if hunched over slightly against the rain.

Luke looks up and back, glancing over his shelter. He'd maneuvered his X-wing on repulsors alone snug up against the cliff nearby, though it was too big to get into this shallow sandy cave. It's wrapped, landing struts and all, in a camo net that makes it look like part of the rock. There's still a tang of engines in the air.

"If he'll duck his head." Another look at the cloaked stranger. Luke shows his palms. "You might need to do that too, friend."

The smile is returned, though with one much more open and unguarded, warmth and a hint of amusement in his eyes and words as he offers the other elf a plate with snacks - tiny, elegant affairs, that probably can be found somewhere around, but most of all go well with the wine which is offered by the host. And while that is not Fingon - Findekáno again, now - he has found a plate of treats to be a very fine opener of a conversation, be it with those with whom he has not spoken in a long time, be it with those whom he has never met.

"May it shine only upon joy and gladness, on a fine evening such as this. ...Or so it seems to me. I hope it has been to your liking as well?" If he steps just a bit too close and his eyes rest on Legolas just a bit too firmly, searching for something, he at least doesn't mention it. It's as if he is subtly searching, semi-stealthily (the wine isn't particularly nice on true stealth) trying to find an answer - measuring.

What he might be looking for can perhaps be assumed, by one who notices the glances which mostly go to the top of Legolas's head and both their shoulders, two or three times, before his smile widens just a bit and he relaxes some more.

Edited 2014-06-12 06:52 (UTC)

"I should think so, if he has to." He may not be tall for one of his kin, certainly not for one of the Noldor, but his head is still higher than that of the sturdy horse.

And duck under the presumed piece of rock (a strange smell clings to it, though he cannot place it at all) he will, letting go of the horse and leading it with a simple word, a soft touch against its fëa, the reins quickly undone before it trots past Luke.

He pushes back the hood once he is under the rock, revealing fine, even features of an almost ethereal beauty, pointed ears and long, dark hair, golden beads braided into his plaits. "Thank you for the shelter, stranger. Though a stranger I will not call you, if you should give me your name. Mine is Fingon."

He smiles. Luke is not tall. Among pilots that's seen as a good thing, among Jedi it doesn't matter, though people who knew his father always seem surprised at his size. Sometimes he does wonder how small his mother was, or is. "Come in, then! There's space."

Luke will remember that little flash of suggestion. He can call on the Force to influence or control animals, but the ease and swiftness of that touch is beyond what he's learned.

He's seen someone like this before, hasn't he? A Sephi with a compellingly otherworldly look. Images of someone, at least. He thinks he'd recall right away if it had been in person. Luke lets the thought sit; he'll remember, or not. "It's not a problem. I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm sorry I can't be much of a host, but my accommodations are yours and there's plenty of water." He's making a joke, in his understated way. Water had been an important part of hospitality, when he was a child.

Amusement crinkles the corner of his eyes. "Well you see Elros, although tis true that your hug was a fine one indeed, it has been some time since Elrond hugged me, so perhaps my memory is inaccurate? Also, although it has been a very long time, Maedhros once gave very good hugs! As his younger brother, twould be unfair of me to deny him a chance to defend his title, no? Perhaps if we all snuck up on him and hugged him together, we might be able to judge fairly?

Edited (augh typos) 2014-06-03 02:33 (UTC)

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"...You're lying." It's impossible that Maedhros could give good hugs. Not because he doesn't like him or anything, or because he's not nice when he's not scary, or even because he's strictly uncomfortable (his back is pretty comfortable to rest against when they're coming back from a hunt that he was allowed to go on, Elros has to admit) but... It's Maedhros.

No. "You're just saying that because he's your brother." Because obviously you'd say that about your brother, that they are the second-best (or the best if you don't care about the title).

She's not sure what this place that she woke up to is, but it seems safe - there are no titans; nor are there any humans, for that matter. The last abandoned cottage that she passed was days ago.

Acquiring food out in the wild is still a learning experience, but hunting has brought her quite far, and right now she put up a little fire to roast a rabbit over. The smell and smoke will give her position away from some distance away, but she really doesn't care - she's able to defend herself, there are high trees around to climb and use if attacked, and for all she knows she might be the only soul in millions of miles. Being found by something or someone may actually be interesting and give her some information on where she is.

An eyebrow goes up in amusement.

"I do not lie to you Elros, you know that." Not even when it hurts, not even about the cruel things. "Perhaps I am slightly biased, but there is, after all, only one way to find out."

A teasing smile. "Surely my bold one is brave enough?"

FINGON Middle Earth Pre-Fingolfin's death	ELROS Middle Earth Childhood	AREDHEL Middle Earth Pre-forest
Fëanor Middle Earth ota	Ambarussa Middle Earth ota	Dís Middle Earth ota

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Fingon, gimmie tipsy flirting!

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I'm great at going to bed apparently

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Blaine or Ymir! I'm cool with either

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