This little drabble takes place in Aman when the Feanorians and their cousins were kids. I don't know Elves' exact growth rate, but in this story Maglor is the equivalent of twelve years old, and Celegorm and Aredhel are both eight. For simplicity's sake, I've used their Sindarin names. If you didn't already know, Ammë is mother in Elvish. Meow.

"Where have you been, Celegorm?" Maglor asked as his muddy little brother walked past him. "Ammë's been looking for you for the past two hours."

"I was playing with my cousin." Celegorm tried to squeeze past his brother.

"Which cousin?"

"Aredhel."

Maglor knew very little about Aredhel. He actively avoided his little girl cousin whenever possible; she was far too wild and noisy for the quiet, musically inclined preteen. He honestly had no memories of her other than her shrieking at the top of her little lungs as she chased her younger cousins, her dress torn and filthy as though she had been chasing after orcs. Celegorm would like her. "Did you ride your ponies together?"

"A little, but she kept falling off. Even Curufin could ride better than her."

"Does she like archery?"

"She loves it, but she stinks at it."

"Er," Maglor said, a little at a loss for words. He kept probing Celegorm, trying to find out what it was about Aredhel that interested Celegorm. "Do you think she's pretty?"

Celegorm shrugged.

Of course Celegorm wouldn't care if she was pretty or not. "Can she run fast?"

"Nope."

Stumped. "Then why do you like her?"

"'Cause she can spit real far."

Maglor blinked.

"You should have seen it. She nailed Turgon right on the forehead at twenty paces," Celegorm said as though he were talking about an archery contest. "She's like, a dead shot."

Girls are scary. Take Maglor's word for it.