The hesitant nudge curled through Elrohir’s thoughts, disrupting a perfectly good dream.
‘Roh? Are you awake?
Annoyed, he snuggled deeper into the blankets, trying to recapture the thread of his adventure, but it was too late. The dragon had flown, and the balrogs dispersed like mist with the next impatient intrusion.
Elrohir!
Abandoning all hope, Elrohir opened his eyes. “What?”
“Are you going to sleep all day? I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon.”
Elrohir raised himself on one elbow and glanced toward the open arches. The horizon still glowed a faint pink, and the garden was alive with the chirps and warbles of birds going about the morning’s business. “I hardly think so,” he drawled, turning to look at his brother. Then he blinked and looked again.
Elladan’s hair, which usually hung down his back in a practical single braid, was intricately plaited, silver thread gleaming among the blue beads. He wore not his usual leather leggings and sturdy tunic, but fine woven deep grey breeches and a thigh-length midnight blue robe, the collar and cuffs of a white silk shirt peeking from beneath the rich fabric.
“Valar’s wisdom, tôren!” Elrohir exclaimed, “Are we expecting a royal visit? And from which monarch? You are dressed for Gil-galad, at the least. Perhaps even Finwë!”
He immediately regretted his words.
Elladan’s face fell. “I will change, then,” he replied quietly, rising from the edge of Elrohir’s bed. “I would not want you to be ashamed of me.”
“Wait, ‘Dan,” Elrohir said quickly, sitting up to catch his brother’s arm. “I did not mean that. I could never be ashamed of you. Never.” Tightening his fingers for a brief moment, he let Elladan feel the depth of his remorse. “Forgive me, tôren. And let me look at you.”
Elladan stood perfectly still, his face schooled into the formal mask of diplomacy that he wore with increasing ease these days. He looked like a prince, regal and vaguely arrogant. He looked unnervingly adult.
And Elrohir was not quite sure how he felt about that.
“You are stunning,” he said truthfully. “You remind me of that portrait of Fingon in Erestor’s book.”
“Honestly?” Elladan asked, a faint blush blooming along his cheekbones.
Elrohir nodded vigorously. “Truth,” he assured his brother. Eyeing Elladan’s hair, he said, “Surely you did not do your own braids?”
“Glorfindel did them,” Elladan admitted. “I intended to ask Nana, but he said he would be glad to aid the cause.” The elder twin paused, his brow creasing slightly. “I am not sure exactly what he meant. But he was terribly cheerful.”
“He is a good friend,” Elrohir said stoutly, fighting the flush that threatened to color his own cheeks, “and so very brave.” Frowning thoughtfully, he added, “But I still do not understand, ‘Dan. What is so special about today?”
“Surely you have not forgotten!” Elladan said in surprise.
“Forgotten what?”
Elladan’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Gildor is coming.”