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Elrohir groaned as he woke very, very reluctantly. The light was
too bright; the birdsong too loud. There was a pain in his head
as if all Aulë’s dwarves were hammering in concert, and a taste in
his mouth like scrapings from the floor of the barn where the hens
roosted.
He opened one eye. Elladan stood over him; maliciously,
deliberately sober. “Still asleep, little brother? I was
awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon.”
Dimly he recalled dinner last night, and the bet. He groaned
again, and pulled a pillow over his head.
Never again.
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