"Good morning, Alagon."

"Ah, my king. Are these the trade agreements?"

"Yes, and they are for reference, not for marking up, do you understand?"

"My lord—"

"That is Heledir's job, Alagon, not yours."

"If there are errors—"

"Then I will correct them."

"Clearly you did not last time," the advisor muttered.

The king cleared his throat.

"My apologies. May I have those now?"

Thranduil handed him the documents, just as Taensirion poked his head in. "Good morning," the gray-eyed elf greeted them cheerfully. "How is everyone?"

"About to be swamped by frogs, evidently," remarked Alagon, who was already deep into the second page of Heledir's handwriting. "I expect he meant lamps." The Sindarin words for the objects in question were similar—cabor and calar. "Alternatively, perhaps he intends to feed them to our forces to increase their jumping abilities, in which case we shall need something to sustain the livestock." He dipped his quill into his trademark bottle of dark red ink and scribbled you forgot the flies across the bottom of the sheet, then handed it back to the king with a smirk. "As I said, errors."

Thranduil snorted and turned to go. "I shall make sure he receives your correction."

Taensirion elbowed him as soon as they were out the door and whispered, "Did he just make a joke?"

"It was fated to happen someday, as an elf once became a bird, and the odds are essentially equal."

. . . . . .

"I dare you."

"Why would I—"

"Are you scared?"

Alagon frowned at the prince. "Hardly." It was several decades after the frog error, which Alagon had long forgotten, meaning he was confused by the king and Taensirion's question as to whether "the frogs have come yet" whenever a supply shipment was due.

"Then do it."

The redheaded elf shook his head disdainfully, but still asked out of a tiny degree of curiosity, "And who were you intending me to target, if I were to agree?"

The prince shrugged. "Oh, I do not know. Whoever you wanted to get back at for something, I guess." He went to rejoin his friends, who, along with their mother and Alagon's sister-in-law, were building a lumpy imitation of an elf.

Alagon snorted at the prince's misguided attempt to make him engage in the festivities, but then he caught sight of his wife out of the corner of his eye; she was perched on a low-hanging branch, refusing to get her clothes wet even though the others continued to beg her to engage in their childlike games. That part he approved of, but he was annoyed that she also wouldn't come walk with him because of the drifting snowflakes.

What was this urge welling up within him?

Legolas and the others working on the snow-elf were startled by a sudden shriek. Kimbrel yelled something, sounding very much like Kilvara after Legolas switched out her shampoo for a concoction involving tree sap that one time (the only time he played a prank like that on her, the consequences were much too severe), and Alagon, wiping his damp hand on his leg, watched with a satisfied smile that turned suddenly to horror right before a snowball smacked him straight in the face.

"Did he just start a snowball fight?" Kilvara wondered in amazement.

. . . . . .

"He started it, and I'm not sorry," Kimbrel declared as Alagon held a handful of snow to his cheek, which was bleeding from the ice chunks in the forcefully thrown frozen projectile, thus their trip to Felrion and Kilvara's house to apply first aid. Kimbrel's clothes were still damp.

"Good for you, girl," Kilvara congratulated her.

Alagon glared at his wife dangerously, his eye not quite being swollen shut yet, and this prompted Kilvara to make a threatening gesture at him—the patrol sign for slitting a captured orc's throat.

Not coincidentally, that was when Felrion stepped back in. "Let me see."

"You already saw it," Alagon grumbled.

"There was more blood then, hold still."

"No."

"Do you want stitches or not?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not. Now leave me be, healer." When his advice wasn't followed, Alagon snatched at the offending hand and it was quickly withdrawn (one did not want to be grabbed by Alagon even under good conditions, as his grip, like his sparring, had only one setting).

The eye-roll Felrion allowed himself was only a fraction of the one he wanted to give. "Fine. You can go home now, then."

"Wait, Felrion." This was Tathor. "Let me try."

As everyone else watched in mild concern, the slender little Silvan (actually taller than Alagon, but that was impossible to believe when one couldn't see them standing side-by-side) went and crouched next to the patient, who curled his lip and pulled away. "It'll heal faster if it's stitched shut."

"I—"

Tathor's eyes darted almost imperceptibly to his mother and back. "But mostly it'd make Kimbrel feel better—right, Kim?"

"Hmph." Alagon's wife folded her arms and looked away, but admitted, "Yeah, I guess."

"See?" said Tathor cheerfully.

Alagon frowned, but put down his remaining snow-slush and let Tathor begin sewing up the small cut. "She said she was not sorry," he objected, enunciating carefully since he could only use the not-needle-exposed side of his face.

"Yeah." Tathor shrugged. "Maybe she really is sorry and doesn't want to say. Here, turn this way—" Alagon ignored him in favor of eyeing Kimbrel, so the healer grasped his ear firmly and turned his head that way, eliciting a surprised yelp. The others recognized this as a favored tactic of Silana's with misbehaving soldiers, but probably no one had ever dared to use it on Alagon before. "—and there you go, it should heal fast now." He stepped back out of reach before Alagon could even think of mounting a counterattack. A few moments later, he—and Legolas and Firith—were safely out of the house, and Alagon was still trying to process how the meek elfling-like healer had gotten away with yanking on his ear.

Felrion's mouth hung open. "Did he just...?"