“Too hot, Nana,” Elrohir fretted, struggling to escape his mother’s grip. “Too hot!”
“Too hot!” Elladan parroted, wriggling free of Elrond’s less practiced hold.
“It is too hot,” the frustrated Elf-lord agreed, wiping his damp brow with the back of an equally slick hand. “I have never seen the like, in all the years we have spent in the Valley.”
“But they can hardly appear at the dinner table unclothed,” Celebrían pointed out, skillfully slipping a silk tunic over Elrohir’s head, “no matter what the weather.”
“Nay, I suppose not,” Elrond sighed, then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, visions of blessedly cold rushing water and tiny bare bottoms, delighted shrieks and drowsy hugs dancing in his head. “But there is naught to say they must appear at all.”
Stripping off his own damp robe, the Elf-lord extended a hand to each of his sons. “Come along, ‘Adan...’Rohir,” he said cheerfully, removing the younger twin’s tunic before scooping up an elfling in each arm.
“Where are you going?” Celebrían asked in resignation.
“To the river, of course,” Elrond replied, a mischievous grin lighting his face. “Would you care to join us, melethen?”
“And what of our guests?” the Lady prodded gently.
There was a moment’s silence before the Valley’s lord answered reluctantly.
“Aye, I suppose they can come, too.”
