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“Really, Estel, whatever possessed you?” Elrohir asked,
surveying the damage from the top of the steps. Foaming
water covered the cobbled yard, and soap suds still bubbled up through
the fountain.
“Well …” Estel scuffed his feet, wondering how to explain that the plan
to wash his mud-caked clothing himself had seemed like a good idea at
the time. “I didn’t want mother to see …”
“Never mind, Estel,” Glorfindel advised, observing from the
sidelines. “Ignore them. Your brothers have no right to
chastise you. You may not know, but they were known as Mischief
and Mayhem when they were younger.”
“Glorfindel, please!” Elladan protested weakly.
“They flooded the cellars once by diverting the stream instead of
filling up the water barrels as they should have done,” Glorfindel
continued.
Estel stared at his brothers. The tips of Elladan’s ears had gone red. “You did that?” he asked. “When?”
“Never you mind,” Elladan said quellingly. “It was a long time ago.”
“And did they really call you Mischief and Mayhem? Which was which?”
Elrohir gave a snort of laughter, and jerked a thumb at his twin.
“I was Mischief, and he was Mayhem. Unless it was the other way
round …”
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