His life revolved around her.

Whether it was her smile or her incredibly wide doe eyes, Elrohir was indubitably, irrevocably, and irredeemably obsessed. The ground she trod on he adored, the fragrance of the air she breathed, according to him, exceeded that of Valinor itself, and what she disliked, he hated. With a vengeance.

To put it more plainly, Elrond's elfling son was in love.

"If this is not love," he breathed adoringly one day, watching the elleth idle by a bed of flowers, "then truly it does not exist. Wherefore, heretofore, and therefore, I declare that I love her."

In case no one was aware of this before, Elrohir was obsessed with long words. And synonyms. But not homonyms. To an elfling from whose mouth poured only words of admiration, adulation, and adoration, there was something vaguely offensive about words that meant exactly the opposite of what one was trying to express.

For a time, all went smoothly. She accepted his flowers, lovesick (and nauseating) attempts at poetry, and even reciprocated his besotted, not-so-subtle gazes from across the Hall of Fire. She ate with vigour, vehemence, and velocity the honey cakes from numerous desserts that he sacrificed for her sake, and he noted with admiration that her slim, sleek, and slender waist never expanded.

But then came the ultimate tragedy.

She refused him.

"Yáviel," he whispered one bright morning, and repressed his heart's urge to melt into a puddle as she turned slowly to him. He barely heard her musical, melodic, and... he cursed Morgoth's painful lack of sympathy towards lovesick ellyn. Surely the Dark Lord had gone wooing in the spring, Elrohir cogitated naively. Perhaps Ungoliant...?

But I digress.

Tragically unable to find a third synonym to describe Yáviel's lovely, lilting, and ludicrous tones, (due to his tender years, Elrohir did not know what 'ludicrous' meant. He had always thought it sounded complimentary.) Elrohir settled for gazing deeply into her eyes. She blushed. Elrohir nearly fainted.

"Yáviel..." he whispered dramatically, but was forced to stop as he felt a sneeze building up inside his nasal cavities. He raised a hand and forcefully repressed it. Then he thrust said hand in an impassioned gesture towards the sky. It was to his credit that he managed to modulate the masculine glory of his voice. He liked the idea of Yáviel swooning at his mellow tones.

He decided to impart his astounding news.

"Yáviel," he announced grandly, evidently uncertain as to what to do with his hands, since one was still stuck in the air while the other clutched at his right shoulder for dear life; "I am seven today!"

Yáviel raised a delicate eyebrow. She did not speak. Elrohir was crestfallen. Perhaps she had heard that it was his (and Elladan's) begetting day already! Or perhaps – his chubby lip trembled momentarily before he remembered his venerable age – perhaps it meant little to her since she had long passed seven herself.

Elrohir decided to plow onwards, excited about her reaction to the shock he was about to give her.

"And," he whispered, "and and Yáviel." He leaned in closer. "An' I don't – need – a – push!"

He stepped back proudly, but his eager face fell as he gauged her reaction. She was unimpressed. Elrohir could have cried.

Yáviel sighed internally. She had long since passed the age where such mundane things were interesting. Yáviel was eight.

Elrond's younger son continued, his voice less animated now than before. "D'you want me to push you?"

"No," Yáviel said, quite calmly. (And casually. Some might say complacently.) "I do not want a push, thank you very much."

She turned and walked briskly away. She had a busy day ahead of her – since she would no longer be receiving honey cakes from his source, all she could do was bedazzle Elrohir's twin.

Elrohir stared after her retreating figure, his face despair and woe personified. Not want to go on his begetting day swing – the one Adar had made for him, no less! All ellyth liked swings in romantic gardens, Glorfy had assured him of that. He sniffed. Maybe he should have mentioned the garden.

Slowly, his shoulders drooping, Elrohir meandered back towards the House. But in his depressed (dejected, and dour) state, he did not see the chipmunk hole until he fell over it, his little boot catching in the tunnel and sending him stumbling straight to the ground.

Elrohir was about to cry for the second time that day when it occurred to him that it was possible, in fact prestigiously plausible, that Yáviel was hiding nearby, waiting for that very reaction. But no such thoughts helped when he realised that in falling, his boot had torn the chipmunk's entryway, and it had looked so nice! (Not only that, but his boot was no longer sanitary. His naneth would have a fit.)

"I so sorry, Chippy," he moaned as he dragged himself onwards, scrubbing at his tear-streaked face and leaving tracks of grime behind. "I didn't mean to... I so sorry, Chippy..."

Celebrian was calmly embroidering on the family terrace when she heard something. She listened hard, sensing instantly that it was a cry of distress that she heard. Her suspicions were confirmed when one of the twins came into view around some bushes, sobbing pitifully.

Stifling a sigh, Celebrian set aside her embroidery and rose to her feet, opening her arms wide as her son broke into a run upon catching sight of his naneth. She enclosed the heartbroken elfling in her embrace, patting his back, cooing random monosyllables into the delicately pointed ear as she internally vowed vengeance upon the sadistic soul who dared harm her angel.

She caught snatches of words between the sobs, the sniffs, and the hiccups – namely "Chippy... foot..." and a long, drawn-out "Soooooory!" A sigh of relief gusted from her lips before she could restrain herself. Perhaps the harm wrought was not so serious after all – but Elrohir was crying terribly hard now, hardly able to breathe through his gasping sobs. Any other mother would have panicked when faced with a grieving child, purple in the face and suffocating. But Celebrian was not just any mother (fortunately for Elrohir), and in his mother's arms, Elrohir eventually calmed. He breathed, for practically the first time in the past several minutes, and Celebrian let out a heavy sigh.

"Elrohir," she said quickly, enthusiasm and desperate hope tinting her voice, "do you want to play on your swing?"

There was a welcome respite from the sobs, and after a minute Celebrian felt her son nod against her neck. Then Elrohir turned his head slowly and looked shyly up at her.

"Can – can you push me?"

Celebrian laughed and patted his back, hugging him tighter, and Elrohir snuggled down into his mother's arms. Perhaps ellyth were not the only things of importance in his world, he decided. Nanas, for one, certainly surpassed them. And so did honey cakes, which he was looking forward to with anticipation, adulation, and... aggressiveness...?

Blast, he did not know what that meant!

Not too far away, in a romantic garden, Yáviel gazed deeply into Elladan's eyes. The older Peredhil stared, entranced, back at her.

"Would you like a honey cake?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Yáviel batted her eyelashes. "Would you like to hold my hand?" she countered, reaching for his fingers.

Elladan swooned.

THE END

A/N: I know, trust me, I know! I wrote this at 11 two nights ago because it wouldn't let me go to sleep until I had finished it. (That method of blackmail actually accounts for more than half the stories I've posted.) Please review!