Work Text:
"No helping! I can do it!"
Finally perceiving her truant son's imperious voice, the scene before her makes Gilraen pause in the porch's shadow:
The Lord of Imladris, cross-legged in the meadow’s grass, back straight; Estel behind him, sun-kissed face fierce in concentration, finger-combing the long hair free from white blossoms, their heads drooping in the heat – a pitiful garland.
"Again!"
Obedient, Elrond hands over another flower from the wilting heap in his lap.
Catching sight of Gilraen, he puts his other hand to his lips, quirks an eloquent eyebrow.
Gilraen bites back a snicker and leaves them to it.
