“’Dan is sicker than I, Ada, truly.”
Elrond’s eyebrow arched slightly as he took in the fever-flushed cheeks of his youngest son.
“Am not!” Elladan insisted, rubbing his dark-ringed eyes. “’Roh is sicker than I be. Give it to him, Ada.”
“Neither of you would be ill had you heeded my warning,” the Elf-lord pointed out, suppressing a smile as two chastised grey gazes dropped penitently. “When I say berries are not for eating, they are not for eating.”
“But we thought you only meant to save them,” Elrohir dared, “not that they were poison!”
A chuckle nearly escaped despite Elrond’s best effort, and he laid a gentle hand on each dark head. “Were they poison, pen neth, ‘twould be a tragedy, indeed. ‘Tis only that they are meant for healing, not for consumption by voracious elflings.”
Forcing a look of disapproval to his face, he turned back to the ominously steaming kettle that swung over red-hot coals, tending the brew with a practiced hand. The dark water boiled, and there was a hideous stench.
Then Elrond allowed himself a smile, his eyes dancing. “And you need not fret, pin nith. There is more than enough tonic to go around.”
