Elrohir (rohir) wrote in unfinished_logs, @ 2010-03-09 22:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | arwen, elrohir |
WHO: Elrohir and Arwen!
WHAT: Some brother-sister bonding time!
WHERE: The Rivendell elves' quarters in the citadel. Minas Tirith.
WHEN: Whenever now is. Late morning/noontime.
NOTES: G. Incomplete (to be completed via threading).
It was a beautiful, clear day outside. Elrohir had just arrived in Minas Tirith several days ago, as part of his sister’s escort, though it was hardly the first time he had been to the White City—he’d travelled here in the days of its earlier glory, majestic and awe-inspiring. There had always been some part of him that had marveled at the ability of Man to carve something so beautiful and alive out of deadened stone, and even if Minas Tirith, in the aftermath of battle, was not quite as glorious as it had once been, he was sure that it would soon regain and even outstrip its former splendor.
Used to spending much of his time in the wilderness and open air, Elrohir had taken to wandering the streets in the early mornings and afternoons. He would visit the horses in the Sixth Level before heading downwards through the circles, amused and interested by the little shops and establishments that lined the streets. This morning, he had discovered a gem of a bakery tucked away in the corners of the Fourth Level—he’d smelled it from nearly a street away, the aroma of freshly-baked bread and citrus honey luring him in through the doors.
It was such that he returned to the citadel by noontime, weaving silently through the corridors to his family’s temporary quarters. He dropped a small parcel off in Elladan’s rooms—never let it be said that Elrohir was not a gracious and generous brother, after all—leaving a note for his absent brother, reminding him not to eat all of the fresh pastries in one sitting. Elrohir continued towards his sister’s room, his sharp half-Elven hearing picking up on the soft shuffle of feet within: so she was awake, at least.
He knocked softly, opening the door at her bidding. Elrohir quirked a bright smile her way, holding the parcel of honey rolls behind him; they had reminded him of the kind that Miluiel, one of the best bakers in Imladris’ kitchens, used to make for them when they were Elflings. “Good morning, sister,” he sing-songed, as if she could not pick up on the mouth-watering scent of the honeyed buns.