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When Elrond of Rivendell received a letter from his friend Thranduil in Mirkwood, he knew something was up. Thranduil seldom wrote, as a rule. He preferred sending one of his sons as a messenger, ostensibly because what he had to say was too important to be committed to parchment. Elrond suspected that the real reason was so Thranduil could get at least one of his children out from underfoot. Elves were rarely prolific, so no one had been more surprised when Thranduil had had five sons and two daughters, except possibly his wife.

Now their seven children had all grown up to be handsome – or beautiful, in the case of the girls – well-behaved, and wise. The only trouble was that all seven of them were still living at home. It was unlikely they would be moving out any time soon. After all, where was there for young, skilled elves to go? Their mother had expressly forbidden them from visiting Círdan; she feared they would develop the sea-longing and leave her. Thranduil's eldest son, Ithalion, had visited Lothlorien once and caused such trouble that Galadriel had banned the entire family from the Golden Wood. And so the only place left for Thranduil to send his wonderfully talented offspring was Rivendell, which he did as often as possible. Elrond entertained messengers from Mirkwood at least once a month, and the novelty had long since worn off.

After receiving this latest letter, Elrond hastily retreated to his private garden. He unfolded the parchment and began to read with great trepidation. With Thranduil, one never knew what might happen next.

Dear Elrond,

Thank you so much for sending your sons this summer to help Legolas with his swordplay. I was growing quite desperate. As Yule approached this year, I have been wondering what I could do to repay your great kindness. Finally it came to me! I am enclosing with this letter – or more accurately, with the bearer of this letter – something that I think will greatly improve your Yule. Not to mention your sons' archery. One would quite think they been raised without any knowledge of it! Also, the next time the White Council convenes, would you please give Galadriel my sincerest apologies? She should listen to you. After all, you did marry her daughter.

Navaer an si,

Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Mirkwood

Elrond's eyebrows climbed steadily up his forehead as he read. When he came to the end of the letter, he sighed. Brilliant. Somehow he doubted he'd find this Yule surprise of Thranduil's as wonderful as Thranduil said. The lord of Rivendell stood and squared his shoulders. Whatever it was, he could handle it. Had he not been the standard bearer of Gil-galad and watched all the hosts of Sauron come bearing down against them? In the deep recesses of his mind, a little voice whispered that this could very well be worse.

The letter clutched firmly in one hand, Elrond made his way back inside the house. It bustled with preparations for Yule. The maids had finished cleaning and were putting up decorations with Glorfindel and Erestor's "help". Sidestepping the merry chaos, Elrond snorted. His advisors were doing more flirting than decorating.

"Have you seen my sons?" he asked Glorfindel.

Glorfindel glanced up from the wreath he was hanging. "Not recently."

The pretty elf maid on the other side of the wreath giggled. "They were headed for the kitchens, my lord. Said something about testing out the cooking? Ithalion was with them."

"Thank you." Elrond hurried along to the kitchens, rather worried. He hadn't realized Ithalion was the messenger.

He found Elladan and Elrohir sitting at the ancient wooden worktable with a handsome blond elf. Ithalion. Elladan had a mortar and pestle in his lap and was busily pounding ginger roots. As he finished with them, he dumped them into a giant stone mixing bowl. Elrohir then folded them into the bread dough at the bottom of the bowl. The brothers were listening intently to some far-fetched story of Ithalion's.

"Ehem."

The three younger elves jumped three feet in the air. The twins turned to look at their father.

"Guilty consciences?" chuckled Elrond.

"Ada, we weren't doing anything," grumbled Elrohir, setting his mixing bowl to rights.

"You never are. Good morning, Elrohir, Elladan, Ithalion…."

"My lord Elrond!" Ithalion rose hastily and executed a graceful bow. "My father the King has sent me with a Yule present for you."

Elrond waved the letter in his hand. "So I read." He trusted Thranduil's children even less than he trusted their father, if that were possible.

Ithalion flushed, embarrassed. "I would present it to you now, my lord, but one of your children has already appropriated it."

"It wasn't us!" Elladan looked up at his father with wounded grey eyes.

"Arwen?"

"She's in Lorien, Ada, remember?" Elrohir shook his head in exasperation.

"That's right. It's been a long week," Elrond said defensively. "Not . . . Not Estel?" He couldn't imagine his foster son being interested in a gift from Thranduil. Not unless it was food or horses or something.

"Finally. It's his favorite thing, you know."

"Well, it's just at his level, if you know what I mean, Elrohir."

"True, true," grinned his twin.

"Are you talking about my little brother?" Ithalion did not approve.

"Your little brother?" It still hadn't sunk in.

Ithalion sighed. "My father, Thranduil of Mirkwood, has magnanimously decided to send my younger brother, Prince Legolas, to you in order to help your older sons better develop their archery."

Elladan and Elrohir rolled their eyes at the ceiling. Ithalion didn't notice.

"Well," the eldest son of Thranduil bowed again. "I thank you for your great hospitality, my lord Elrond, but I have another message to deliver to Erestor." Smirking slightly, he left the kitchen.

"Ada, are you all right?"

Ever since Ithalion's announcement, Elrond had stood frozen, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. The elf lord shook himself and looked at his eldest son. "Yes, Elladan, I think so."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Legolas being here indefinitely, would it?" asked Elrohir shrewdly.

"In . . . In . . . Indefinitely?" Elrond sputtered.

"Didn't Ithalion tell you?" Elladan got up to refresh his pile of ginger roots. "Thranduil's gifted his son to you until he sends for him again."

On the day Arwen was born, Elrond and Celebrian had promised together never to swear in front of their children. His wife had crossed the seas more than a century ago, but Elrond still held firmly to their resolution. Until today. He went bone-white and spat a single word in Quenya.

His sons murmured something appreciative, but Elrond didn't hear them. He stared out the kitchen window, busy imagining the terrible things Estel and Legolas were probably up to at that exact moment.

A Yule present? More like Yule penance. I will never forgive Thranduil for this, Elrond thought violently. Not even if he apologizes for a thousand years.

A/N: Merry Christmas, m'dears! :-) Please review!