The waiting list for the highly expensive and completely elite summer camp was extensive. Some families had put their names forward when their infants were first named. The best of the best.
However, some families had names so old and revered that they could call up last minute and find a place had magically opened up for their young scions.
Lord Elrond Peredhel frowned thoughtfully, drumming his fingers in slight frustration upon his antique mahogany desk. "My good Gandalf, surely this is a duplicated application?"
"So I thought as well." The headmaster of the camp bowed his head very slightly to the head of the board of trustees. "Fili Durinson. Kili Durinson. A mistake of the keyboard somewhere.
One child, not two."
"Indeed." Sniffed the British peer, not so much in a haughty manner but in a way that clearly showed elegant breeding and a thoughtful personality.
Gandalf Graymane, whose name lived up to his rather unorthodox appearance, smiled benignly.
He dressed simply and for function, his long gray hair could do with some styling, and with his walking stick he looked almost elderly. Until you peered into his eyes.
Ever present youth and vigor dwelled there. Someone who would never be old, no matter what date showed on their birth certificate. "So of course I looked into it."
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