The shipwright strode down the rough trail through the dunes to the shore, followed at a small distance by Ereinion. The elfling's legs were very much shorter than his host's, and Ereinion was hard pressed to keep up, even when walking as fast as he could manage. The dunes closest to the house were covered with scrubby grass, brambles and dried thistles, but as they approached the shoreline much of the greenery faded away into bare white sand and windswept marram grass.

There were so many interesting things to do here. Ereinion could see a prickly dry head of some plant that was just begging to be picked, small blue and purple flowers amidst the grass, and there were small footprints running up and down some of the steepest slopes. But there was no time to stop and explore today. Cirdan was walking a great pace, and Ereinion was afraid that if he became lost he would never find his way back home. The green dunes all looked amazingly similar compared with the hills and mountains back home, and the paths and hollows held no memories for him.

"Here." Cirdan stopped so suddenly that Ereinion nearly ran into him, and pointed down a small sandy incline to an expanse of damp sand and, beyond that, the sea.

Peeping out from behind Cirdan's legs, afraid that it might be rude to push ahead to have a better look, Ereinion took a deep breath and let his mouth hang open. He had never expected the sea to be this big. The sands seemed to stretch on forever, but beyond that the pewter sea went on and on until it seemed to blend into the skyline. Even the sky seemed bigger here, and if he looked up he could nearly see a full sphere of grey overcast skies.

Suddenly feeling very small and alone, Ereinion instinctively reached upwards, fumbling to find a reassuring hand as he craned his neck to try and find an edge to the sky. The shipwright seemed so tall next to him, his face shadowed against the brightness of the sky.

As the cold fingers brushed against his thumb, Cirdan's arm jerked backwards with a start. The shipwright looked down at the small hand with great distaste, and suddenly found need to move his hand up rub his hand against his beard.

Ereinion's hand fumbled anxiously in mid air, trying to grasp the fingers that he had been so sure were there, then slipped towards the embroidered trim of the shipwright's tunic.

His bushy silver eyebrows rising into a surprised angular line, Cirdan hurriedly sidestepped out of the reach of such a short arm, once again frustrating the elfling's efforts. This time Ereinion seemed to realise what had happened, and looked up at him in confusion, the grey eyes wide with surprise. He had never met such a stupid elf before. His Naneth and Adar always knew when he wanted to hold hands before he even reached for them, and his grandfather always knew - always had known, Ereinion corrected himself very properly - when he needed a cuddle. His Adar had told him that Cirdan was very wise, but perhaps he had made a mistake.

Smiling his best smile at the shipwright, Ereinion stretched out his hand for Cirdan to take. Perhaps he just did not know what he was supposed to do. He had once heard Ainon speaking with one of the other soldiers, and he had said that Cirdan did not have children of his own - not even grown up ones. Maybe the shipwright was so old that he had forgotten how to hold hands. It must have been so long since he had been an elfling.

Cirdan coughed rather awkwardly and pushed roughly past the child to stride rapidly down onto the flat of the sands, leaving the child stumbling behind him. The tide was going out, and the sand was damp, smooth and firm. As they got closer to the shoreline, each step that Ereinion took made the sand underneath his feet lighten momentarily, and he found that if he hopped as fast as he could manage then he could make a third pale patch before the first completely faded. The retreating sea had left several large pools in the endless expanse of sand, and as they passed one close by, Ereinion was sure that he could see the shadows of tiny fish flashing in groups across the submerged sands.

Oblivious of his young guest's eager glances towards the waves and rock pools, Cirdan strode across the beach with a speed brought about by deep thought. He had little idea what the High King had been thinking when he had decided to send this child into his care, but this had certainly not been what he had intended when he had offered his hospitality to the House of Fingolfin all those years ago. The child was but a handful of years past infancy, and would yet need the care and nurturing of his parents. Fingon had always stuck him as impulsive - reckless even - but Cirdan doubted that this decision would have been made without great thought and pain. What courage his previous deeds had shown, double would have been needed to let his son go.

Sighing deeply, the shipwright came to pause beside the first rocks uncovered by the lazy waves and hoisted himself onto a large, flat boulder to stare morosely out to sea.

"Lord Cirdan?" A high-pitched voice cut across his thoughts, and he looked down to find the child staring impatiently at him. "May I please go and explore?"

Cirdan stared at him for a few seconds, prompting an earnest assertion of, "I promise that I will not go far."

He had never come across anyone who would ask permission for so simple a thing as a chance to walk on the beach before, and the mere words filled the shipwright with doubts. Presumably the child's father would sometimes fail to provide such permission, but the reasons that one should choose to do so were beyond him. The boy was in no danger, and while he was painfully thin, Cirdan doubted that he would wilt from starvation in the short distance to the waterline. Each morning, noon and evening he would walk back from the shipyards, and each time there would be children playing - shrieking as the chased and splashed each other, gathering into games, and throwing pebbles at circles drawn in the sand. Surely he would not be required to give permission each time he wished his guest to conveniently disappear.

"Aye. Whenever you wish." Cirdan said and then, feeling that this betrayed a certain amount of his disinterest in the child added, "Do not go further than the city walls."

"Yes, Lord Cirdan." Ereinion's dark head bobbed down obediently, and he turned and walked quickly down to the very edge of the sea. He did not want to appear too eager by running or leaping, but it was wonderful to be so free after the weeks of travel. The sea looked different when you were this close to it, more like an endless grey-green lake than the thin blue line that they had ridden towards, and he had not expected it to chase in and out across the sand.

With the immediate irritation dealt with, Cirdan turned to his letters, resting the parchment against his knees to prevent the strong wind from whipping the papers out to sea. Fingon had always been rather less tidy than his father, and while he had now adopted the same seal, the wax was smeared in such a way that he could distinguish the two. Frowning slightly at the elaborate precision with which his name had been inscribed on the envelope, Cirdan flipped it over and roughly slit open the seal.

The news was worrying to say the least, and the shipwright could well see why the High King felt that this had been the last opportunity to allow his son to escape safely. While an adult elf might be able to manage a gruelling ride to safety should their stronghold come under siege, it would be too much for a child. Even this journey had taken a toll that was far too great on the young prince.

Cirdan looked up from the document for a few brief seconds, watching as Ereinion leapt in the air in an attempt to dodge a wave that was foaming up the beach behind him. The child's clothes were loose on him, and his eyes had an empty, dull look about them. Although he felt that he was far from a suitable father for the boy, it was evident that he could not be sent back from whence he came. Perhaps a suitable family could be found to host the child. There were plenty of pleasant couples that had grown children, and would not object to caring for one so small.

He had once met the lady that Fingon had taken to wife, and he had known then that the new Queen of the Noldor would never desert her people whilst she yet had a choice. To desert their stronghold now, when the hope of their people grew weak, would never have been an option for her. But the separation could not have been easy, and Cirdan did not even dare to think that he might imagine what it had cost her. She had added her own words to the letter, and while there was much written in the way of greetings and instructions as to the boy's care, the slight wobble to her script and the faint smudging of the ink where tears had fallen told a different story.

Sighing heavily, Cirdan looked up to watch Ereinion as he waded out into the surf. The salt water would not be good for the soft leather of those tiny boots, but before he could issue a warning, the child stumbled backwards and was knocked over by an incoming wave.

Rising to his feet with a hint of anxiety, Cirdan surveyed the foaming surf, wondering if he need go in and rescue the child. He had not asked the boy if he could swim, he berated himself - a simple mistake that could cost the child's life. The elflings of the Havens learnt to swim before they could walk, and he had forgotten for a moment that the child would not have similar skills.

Ereinion surfaced, blinking and spluttering, as the wave rushed back to join the rest of the sea and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Unnoticed back on the shore, Cirdan relaxed with a sigh of relief, and fastened his cloak back around his shoulders. The child was unharmed, and after catching his breath and wiping his face with a sodden sleeve was soon back skipping along the shoreline, now venturing even deeper into the water.

Cirdan sat back down, his face creased in worry as he watched the boy's progress. Ereinion had been brought up by those that loved and cherished him. It was the least that he could do to ensure that the child was kept safe.

"Ereinion!" Cirdan bellowed over the wind and, when Ereinion turned, made various violent movements with his hands to indicate that the child should hurry over.

Looking rather worried, Ereinion squelched over, his wet hair free from its braids and being blown every which ways across his face. "I did not mean to, Lord Cirdan. The sand sucked away."

Waving away the breathless excuses, Cirdan looked severely at the child. "Do you swim, Ereinion?"

Sagging a little with relief that he did not seem to be in trouble, Ereinion nodded earnestly. "Yes, Lord Cirdan."

In the summer months his grandfather had often taken him to a deep pool where the river had meandered slowly under the trees. He had enjoyed splashing around and learning the different strokes, and having his father and grandfather play rough-and-tumble with him in the water.

"How far?" Cirdan asked shortly, looking appraisingly at the child. Ereinion looked rather like a weed that had grown up too fast in a dark and shadowy place, and he doubted that the child would have much stamina.

"Oh." Ereinion bit his lower lip slightly as he thought. The pool was the biggest that he had seen - big enough that both his father and grandfather had been able to swim at once - but it did not compare with the size of the sea. "From about here to there."

Cirdan looked from Ereinion's pointing finger to a rock-pool some small distance away. Not far enough to be sure of his safety when playing in the sea. The children of the Havens were never far from the water, and they were not always watched.

"Aye." The shipwright stroked his beard in a rather worried fashion then looked back at the waves crashing against the rocks. "I shall see how well you swim presently. You are not to go near the sea until I do so."

"Yes, Lord Cirdan." Ereinion nodded rather sadly. He had enjoyed playing with the waves, and although there were plenty of other things to do on the beach he would miss them. The shipwright had turned back to his bundle of parchment, without any suggestions on what he was allowed to do. He would have loved to climb the cliffs or try and capture the crabs and jellyfish in the rock-pools, but he was not sure if he would be scolded if he did so. "What may I do, Lord Cirdan?"

"Play." Cirdan looked up from the letter with an expression of great irritation, and racked his brain for some activity that would occupy the child. "Throw stones into a circle."

Cringing at the shipwright's frustrated tone, Ereinion looked down miserably at the sand and wrapped his arms around his body for comfort. The sun was sinking quite low in the sky by now, and he felt cold in his wet things. Back home his Naneth and Adar would be gathered around the fire, talking about interesting things and eating the special cakes that he liked so much. Even when his parents were at their most busy, all the family would gather together for a little while and eat and drink as they spoke about the happenings of the day. When he had been younger, only four or five, he had often pretended that his Adar and grandfather were there even when they were away fighting things. He was much too old to do something that stupid now of course, but suddenly he wished that he could be somewhere warm and cosy, imagining that all his family were around him.

Cirdan grunted as he settled back down to finish off the letter, swung his legs up onto the boulder and leant back against the sea-smoothed surface of the cliff. Neither mother nor father had mentioned swimming in their missives, but the child apparently needed tuition in fencing and archery, and was well able to ride a pony. He apparently spoke Quenya well, and to the shipwright's dismay, could recite poetry and play the flute. Cirdan valued the silence of his evenings greatly - and for that matter, the mornings and afternoons too. Both parents were sure that the boy would enjoy himself, and treasure the shipwright's company. Both parents had chosen to have a child.

A dull plop made the shipwright's head rise from the letter, and he looked up to find the prince sitting cross-legged on the damp sand, a small pile of wet and sandy pebbles beside him. The boy wore an expression of dejected misery, and every so often he would toss a pebble into a large circle that had been drawn very carefully in the sand.

Bending his head closer to the parchment to avoid having to see the little picture of despondency before him, Cirdan re-read the letter, musing over the words. He had once offered to keep this child safe, and he would not break his promise now.

There was another plop, this time accompanied by a quiet sniff, and Cirdan tucked the letter into his pocket and rose to his feet in one smooth and rapid movement.

"Oh very well, I shall see that you swim."

~*~

Swimming, Ereinion found, was much easier when someone you trusted was nearby, than when the shipwright was stalking disinterestedly through the water beside you and making critical comments as to your ability. The waves kept splashing him in the face, and made it more difficult to do the strokes, and the water was bitterly cold. The sea tasted different from drinking water, and in a different way from which the river water had. When he swallowed too much of it, it made him want to choke, and it hurt when it went down his nose.

"Not like that." Cirdan shivered in spite of himself as he waited for the child to wade back over to him, and looked longingly back at the bundle of clothes on the shore. His shirt was soaked through, and the cold north wind was whipping down the coast, chilling him to the bone. They had been in the water for a couple of hours now, and he was beginning to think that this was a problem that could not be addressed in a single day. While the child could swim, he would need much practice before he would happy in allowing him to go off alone. The other elflings could well lead him into danger that they did not understand.

Ereinion walked tiredly back over to him, shivering with cold now that the exercise was not warming him. His legs were not working properly anymore, and he kept stumbling into the water, and each time it was harder to get up. "Lord Cirdan."

"You must breathe when you turn your head." The shipwright looked hard at the child and sighed. He did not know how to teach a child to swim. He had seen many fathers out in the bay during the summer months, teaching their younglings how to swim. None of the happy, laughing elflings had borne any resemblance to the weary, blank look that Ereinion now wore. Maybe now was the right time to broach the subject of moving to a more suitable family.

"Yes, Lord Cirdan." Ereinion nodded weakly at his guardian and tried to remember exactly when he should be turning his head. The shipwright had shown him at the start of the lesson, but that had been long ago, and Ereinion did not like to ask him again.

"Perhaps," Cirdan looked down sternly at the little boy who was standing chest-deep in the grey water, his dark hair plastered to his face, "you might like to stay with some friends of mine."

Ereinion stared at him for a moment, blinking the last of the stinging salt water from his eyes. "Adar said that I was to stay with you."

The child's voice was firm, but had an uneasy hollowness to it. Frowning slightly, Cirdan knelt down in the icy water until he could look at the child eye-to-eye. "They would be very pleased to have you to stay."

"No." Ereinion said as loudly as he could, beginning to shake nervously. His Naneth and Adar had told him that Cirdan would look after him, and that he was to be trusted, but now he was going to make him live with strangers that he did not know - that his parents did not know even. "Do you not want me to stay with you?"

The child's voice was so lonely and lost that Cirdan nearly buckled on his good intentions. He had invited the child after all, and he should at least treat him with the hospitality that he would offer to a visiting dignitary. Perhaps after a week the boy would be more settled, and more agreeable to a move.

"Aye. But you would be happier elsewhere." Cirdan warned then, on seeing the frightened and woebegone look that Ereinion gave him added briskly, "We shall see."

Ereinion did not respond and looked down at the sea as it swelled and fell as each new wave passed them. If Lord Cirdan did not want him, then he did not know what he should do. Everybody had always said that he was to live with the shipwright, and his Naneth and Adar were too far away to go back and ask. And then if Cirdan's friends did not want him then what would become of him?

"Ereinion. . ." Cirdan looked down at the child with a note of anxiety. He was sure that the boy's cheeks were now rather more damp than they had been a few seconds ago, and the child seemed to have gone rather limp. "Are you. . ."

His cheekbones reddening, Cirdan gestured roughly towards the tears that were pooling around the child's dark lashes and trickling down his cold, wet face.

"No." Ereinion said loudly and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and cheeks.

"Good." Cirdan said shortly, and averted his eyes as the young prince took a deep, and not particularly steady breath. "Now, we have wasted enough time."

Nodding rapidly to try and distract attention from his wobbling lips, Ereinion plunged into the water with a mighty splash and began swimming away from the shipwright as fast as he could while still maintaining the stroke.

~*~

Finally, with Ereinion swimming close enough to Cirdan's satisfaction that the shipwright decided to call it a day, the pair dressed and made their way across the beach and up the steps onto the cobbled roads and quaysides. Both were bitterly cold and rather uncomfortable due to their wet and clinging clothes, and Cirdan was in no mood to make allowances for the child.

It was market day down in the courtyards, and the narrow streets were swarming with elves of all ages and descriptions, buying and selling wool, cloths, vegetables, animal, bread and anything else imaginable. Terrified that he would become lost amidst the pushing and shoving forest of boots, knees and thighs, Ereinion scurried after Cirdan, his hand orbiting around the shipwright's fingers in a perpetual cycle of trying to grab a hold, only to have Cirdan move aside at the last moment.

Eventually the shipwright stepped off the street, and Ereinion gratefully followed him into a rather dark little shop, with great lanterns hanging from high beams. The stone walls were covered with shelves containing tools and blades and measuring sticks, and in the corners were great barrels of nails, hinges and tacks. Everyone in the shop smelt of salt and fish and tar, and more than a little frightened, Ereinion shrunk closer to Cirdan's legs.

Conversations were being held far above his head, but he could not make out the words over the low rumble of many others speaking at the same time. Someone had dropped a little brass tack on the floor, and it was rolling around, glinting gold in the lantern light. He wanted to pick it up and keep it for himself, but it was too far away to reach without losing contact with his guardian, and before he could do anything someone with great heavy sea boots had stepped on it, flattening the head against the point.

"My thanks." Cirdan carefully tipped the tiny brass hinges into his cupped hand and transferred them to the depths of one of the square pockets on his tunic. His hand lingered for a moment as he bid farewell to the storekeeper, and as he turned to leave he felt a cold and damp little hand curl around his smallest finger.

Now that Ereinion had managed to get a hold on him, he seemed unwilling to give it up, and his fist was clenched fearsomely tightly around the larger finger. Snorting through his nose, Cirdan stepped back out into the brightness of the street with Ereinion hurrying behind him. Each step that the child took tugged gently at his hand, and the angle at which each was required to hold their arms was far from natural. In short, he could not think of a less comfortable way to proceed.

Frowning, Cirdan gave his hand a slight shake and tried to pull free from the child's grasp. They were returning to the crowds near the market and he moved quickly between the hoards, hoping that they would become so far apart that Ereinion would have no choice but to release his finger.

Unfortunately, Ereinion did not seem aware of this plan, or the role that he was to play in it, and he scurried after the shipwright, his eyes wide with panic lest he lose his way home. His irritation rising rapidly, Cirdan increased his pace until Ereinion tripped over a cobblestone and dragged down heavily on his finger, after which point Cirdan decided that trying to detach the child in the this manner was more likely to cause pain than success.

They slowed to a walk as they left the streets behind and started up the lonely cliff path to the shipwright's home, and taking advantage of the solitude chance to experiment without curious glances or whispered comments. Very slowly he moved his hand backwards and then forwards, frowning a little as Ereinion's hand followed him, never once releasing the firm hold. He supposed that the boy would let go eventually, but for the moment there seemed to be no relaxation of the grip.

Whistling casually and apparently admiring the windswept gorse and rough wooden fencing by the cliff edge, Cirdan slowly raised his arm higher and higher. Ereinion followed suit, reaching skywards until he had to stand on his tiptoes and stretch his arms as high as he could manage just to retain his grip. Turning to look at him with silver brows slightly raised, Cirdan briefly considered lifting his arm still higher to shake the child off then saw the look on the child's face. He had seen that expression before, on young sailors during their first storm as they held desperately to the ropes as the ship plunged over waves and swayed in the gale.

Cirdan relaxed his arm with a sigh, and paused in the middle of the sandy path. Ereinion seemed to be irrevocably attached to him, and no amount of persuasion would make him choose otherwise. The shipwright shut his eyes for a moment then closed his hand around the child's fist. Ereinion had been sent to him for safekeeping, and for better or worse that was where he would stay.

It was not until they were standing damply in the storm-porch outside the backdoor that Ereinion released his hold on the shipwright's finger, and even that offered Cirdan little relief, for now he had a problem of an entirely different magnitude on his hands. Thatharien had greeted them at the door and seemed to have taken exception to methods of ensuring the boy's safety. He had scarcely had time for a greeting before the young prince had been bundled up into his housekeeper's arms and she had launched into a lengthy diatribe on care and kindness to elflings. Thatharien had a surprisingly penetrating and high-pitched voice when annoyed, and she spoke so quickly that the shipwright had little chance to defend himself.

Even Ereinion, despite the time he had devoted to him this afternoon, was rather unkindly not speaking up on his behalf. Perched on the housekeeper's hip and held safely under her arm, his eyes moved from face to face with an expression of sheer terror. Every so often, in a move that Cirdan was sure was designed only to further condemn him, he would quiver violently and cling desperately to Thatharien.

"He is soaked through and bitterly cold!" Thatharien hovered her finger in the air, jolting ever closer to the shipwright's chest with each criticism. "It is not yet springtime and you take him swimming!"

"The child needs. . ." Cirdan began, looking down at the criticising finger with an affronted expression and rather providently took a step backwards.

"The child needs warmth and comfort!" Thatharien's bony arms closed protectively around Ereinion's body. "He is shivering, Cirdan!"

"Perhaps he. . ." Cirdan peered down at the boy who stared back up at him with dark eyes like saucers. The child had been in the water for but a couple of hours, he could not be that cold. He had often spent hours on deck in howling winds and driving rain, and he had never once felt any desire to shiver.

"Perhaps?" Thatharien shifted the child to a more comfortable position and looked at the shipwright, one thin eyebrow raised enquiringly.

"Well. . ." Rather more daunted than he felt he should be at the elf's tone, Cirdan frowned and took another step back. His housekeeper barely reached halfway up his chest in height, and she wielded nothing more fearsome than her acerbic comments, yet at the present time he would much rather face an army of orcs than have to try and explain his actions to her. "He cannot be that cold. He was in the water for but a few hours. . ."

Thatharien's brows shot up angularly, and to prevent any possible misunderstanding, Cirdan added a little reluctantly. "Four hours at most. Perhaps five. . ."

"Five hours!" Thatharien's eyes widened and her face came increasingly grim and the pitch of her voice leapt up several octaves. "Five hours?"

Terrified by the loud voices and the housekeeper's obvious anger, Ereinion clung to the closest thing to him. He did not feel very safe being so close to someone who was so very annoyed, but she had picked him up and he did not feel like moving or wriggling to be put down. It was all his fault that they were being cross with each other, and if they noticed him then he would be shouted at and punished too. Everyone here was so much bigger than he was and all those who loved him were too far away to come and help and protect him it he needed them.

Shuddering violently, Ereinion squirmed to bury his face against Thatharien's body, trying to press his ears against her arm and gown so that he would not be able to hear the angry voices. Even Lord Cirdan's calm voice was becoming tinged with a warning tone. His Adar and Naneth had never shouted and screamed at each other like this, and although Adar had sometimes argued with Fingolfin, they had ended up laughing and hugging each other when they had finished. He did not think that Lord Cirdan was going to hug Thatharien. The housekeeper had been screeching ever since they had come in, and even though she was telling Cirdan off for making him cold and wet it did not make him feel any better. In fact he was beginning to feel as if he might be sick again.

"I. . ." Cirdan frowned deeply and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his tunic. Despite the fact that he knew it was not anatomically possible to survive without drawing breath, Thatharien did not seem to have halted in her shrill protests in the past few minutes. While she had turned pink in the face, she apparently still had a great store of words still inside her for she had shown no sign of slowing or moderating her tone. Concerning though the gradual deepening of the colour of her face was, he was more worried about the boy. The child was now completely limp except for the frequent tremors that would shake his body, and he had gone rather pale. Grimacing a little he nudged his wrist towards Ereinion's huddled form and added gruffly. "You are frightening the little one."

Thatharien's vocal accusation was cut off abruptly as she looked down at the child, then she gathered him up to her chest with a long-suffering huff that left Cirdan in no doubt that this too was to be considered entirely of his doing. At least the boy had been standing by himself when he had brought him home. Now he was more floppy than anything.

"He needs to get warm and dry." Thatharien told him severely, glaring at him as she stroked and picked stray bits of seaweed from the child's hair with a gentleness that was far from in keeping with her tone and expression. "I shall take him to the kitchens."

Cirdan grunted noncommittally and waited for Thatharien to pass through the doorway before heading for his study to finish some documents that yet needed some work. The warmth from the fire would soon dry his damp clothing. He did not need to be mollycoddled in such a manner.

~*~

Ereinion shut his eyes tightly as he was carried through some unfamiliar passageways and through a squeaking door. They were not shouting anymore, but he did not want to look at anyone yet. The room they were in now was warm and smelt of herbs and roasting meat and he had been set down on a hard wooden chair - one too high for him to touch his toes against the bar even when he kicked.

"Ereinion."

Thatharien's voice was calm and soft and understanding again, and he thought that he could smell the soap on her clothes so she must be standing very close to him. She sounded sorry, as if she wanted to talk to him, but he did not want to open his eyes yet.

"Will you not open your eyes for me, little one?"

It was rude not to reply. Adar had always spoken to everyone who spoke to him, even when he was busy. But he did not want to. If he opened his eyes then he would be back in the kitchen in Lord Cirdan's house with someone that he did not know. It was quite nice here in the dark, and the water pooling in the toe of his left boot was not as cold as it had been before.

Eyes still tightly shut, Ereinion shook his head slightly and clenched his hands around the polished wood edges of the seat. It was a nice chair. Someone had shaped it carefully so that there were no corners to bang yourself on, and it dipped a little in the middle so that you did not slide off. There had been one quite like it in one of the rooms close to the kitchens at home. It had been very warm in there, for it was used to dry sheets and blankets during the winter, and when he had been too small to even remember things clearly he and Arassë had liked exploring in the caves and tunnels under the racks.

Sniffling a little, Ereinion lifted an arm to rub his palm against his cheek, only half-noticing that someone was tucking a thick dry towel around him and fashioning a floppy hood from its many folds. He missed Arassë. Arassë would be scared all alone in a strange place without him, and Arassë had never been very good at making new friends without Ereinion there to help him. He hoped that somewhere, someone was looking after Arassë.

Sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night and was scared, his grandfather would take him into the kitchens. He could remember waking up one night in the dark and being scared and alone. Adar and Naneth's door had been shut, and his grandfather's room had been empty, but when he had tiptoed downstairs he had seen a crack of light under the door of the study. It had been his grandfather's study then of course. He had hurried towards it rather too fast, for he had tripped on one of the steps and fallen quite a long way onto the floor of the great hallway.

He had been winded by the fall and had banged his head on one of the banisters, but before he had had time to cry he could remember the study door being flung open letting a great beam of light fall across the stone floor and then his grandfather running to his side. Fingolfin had picked him up and taken him into the study and shut the door so that if he cried he would not wake anyone else, but then he was feeling so much braver because his Agi was with him that he did not need to cry. Although he had sniffled a bit because it had hurt and he had scraped all the skin from one of his knees and another of his elbows.

Then they had gone into the kitchens and he had sat on the tall chair in the corner as he had watched his grandfather get cloths and ointments from the small chest on the high shelf. The ointment had stung a bit, but since he had been sucking on a whole lump of sugar he had not been able to cry about that either. Then when all his grazes had been clean and tidy again, Fingolfin had got two beakers of really cold milk - just the way that they liked it best - and they had gone back to the study and sat on the rug in front of the fire and had a picnic. His grandfather had told him a story about a time when he had once been a child, and how he and his brother had made a tree house high up in a great oak tree.

He felt almost as uncomfortable now as he had done then, and if he kept his eyes tightly shut he could imagine that the noises were not Thatharien moving around after all, but his grandfather fetching the big wooden beakers from the third shelf of the dresser and setting them down on the table. The clatter would be him tripping over one of the cats - his Agi had often forgotten that there were other things smaller than him below what his eyes could see - and Ereinion could almost hear the familiar voice muttering a short exclamation. That creak would be when he opened the door of the pantry and soon he would return with a pitcher of milk for them to share.

"It will be a wild night. There is a storm brewing." An unfamiliar voice with the same strange accent as Lord Cirdan and the soldiers spoke loudly, dragging Ereinion from his daydreams. He opened his eyes rather unwillingly and was disappointed to find that instead of his grandfather, the elf standing in front of him was tall and fair and smelt of horse. The kitchens were not like the ones back home at all. The herbs hanging from the beams were different and smelt strange, the water barrel was in the wrong place, the plates and cups were glazed a deep grey, and even the canisters standing on the shelves were made of glass and metal rather than pottery. The storeroom door was open and through it he could see more barrels, pots and crates than he had yet seen in his life. It seemed quite a long while since his snack now, and he felt as if he could manage to do some exploring and tasting in there if he was given the chance. Although he did not know how he could get down from the chair unnoticed. He was wrapped in an old battered towel, one so big that it was trailing almost to the floor, and it smelt of salt and the little shipbuilding store that they had gone into. The hem had come loose in one corner and he absently began pulling pale strands of cotton from the woven cloth.

"There." Thatharien bustled over, beaming at him, obviously delighted that he had decided to open his eyes. "Eithelin, have you met our guest? This is Ereinion, son of Fingon."

Ereinion briefly considered shutting his eyes again to avoid having to meet someone else new, then decided against it. He liked horses, and all the elves that worked in the stables at home had always been kind to him. In any case, Eithelin was looking at him now and was smiling.

"Well met." Ereinion quickly flashed his teeth at the strange elf then added with more interest. "Does Lord Cirdan have a lot of horses?"

Eithelin and Thatharien exchanged a quick look, and the stable-master chuckled a little and leant back against the table with a grin.

"Well met indeed, Prince Ereinion." The elf inclined his head in a gesture that made Ereinion feel a little embarrassed. It seemed silly for anybody to greet him as if he was important when he was so small. He had not minded being greeted so when his Adar and Naneth were holding his hands and his grandfather was leading the proceedings, but now when he was just Ereinion it sounded meaningless. "And aye, Lord Cirdan has many horses. Have you yet seen them?"

"No." Ereinion spoke quietly and shook his head to emphasize the fact. He wanted to see the horses, but he did not want to ask in case they said no and then he would know that he was not wanted.

"They are fine beasts." Eithelin said cheerfully, wondering at the child's sudden apparent disinterest. But a minute ago he had been sure that he would be forcefully propositioned with an offer of company on a trip to the stables, but now the boy seemed to be doing his best to avoid eye contact. "Do you ride?"

"Yes." Ereinion nodded and looked up at the elf with a hint of hopefulness. Perhaps he would be allowed to visit the horses sometimes. He missed his pony, Celeb, and he had always enjoyed balancing on the wooden bars of the gates of the stalls to greet his father and grandfather's horses. "But I left my pony at home."

"Ah." The strange elf nodded sagely and smiled reassuringly at the little boy. He had seen many of the horses that had arrived from Hithlum, and however fine a mount could be found for the son of the High King, he doubted that any pony would keep up with such beasts. "It will be missing you, I should not wonder."

Ereinion's face shadowed over and he nodded sadly. He missed Celeb too and the little pony would probably not understand why he had had to go away.

"And you miss him too." Eithelin added understandingly, regretting mentioning the pony so sad the expression on the child's face had become. "Maybe there will be a pony here that you may ride."

Ereinion looked up questioningly at him, dark eyes wide in curiosity. He had not thought that Lord Cirdan would have a pony that he could borrow, for neither his Adar nor grandfather had ever wished to ride Celeb, but then Ainon had said that the sea-elves had strange customs. Lord Cirdan would look silly on a little pony though, but he should not laugh.

"Tomorrow we shall go down into the stables so that all the horses may meet you, and then we shall find a pony for you to ride. There are some nice tracks along the cliffs where we could go. . ."

"If Lord Cirdan agrees." Thatharien broke in firmly, giving Eithelin a warning look. Ereinion had perked up at the mention of ponies, that was true, but she had no idea of whether he would be allowed to keep one for himself. The stable-master had taken to the idea with all his enthusiasm and Ereinion was now smiling and bobbing up and down on his chair with excitement. She did not wish to be the one to break the news that the plan had been forbidden, or that Cirdan considered that he could not spare even one pony from those that worked on the land.

"Aye. . ." The elf wrinkled his nose as he broke off his cheerful promises. Although he considered that one pony would not be missed, his lord seemed intent on stockpiling grain and seeds and sending them down the coast, and this occupied many hands. In any case he did not know whether any would be able to find some free hours to accompany the child on his explorations. It was unwise to ramble along the cliffs unless one knew of the dangerous overhangs and windy clefts. "But I am sure that before long, we shall find a pony for you."

Ereinion beamed at Eithelin even when, at Thatharien's look he added, "Even if only for a little while."

If he had a pony if he was very unhappy and he needed his Naneth and Adar very badly he could always ride back home. Lord Cirdan would be angry if he stole a horse, he was sure, but if he was back at home then nothing bad could happen to him. Adar had always been good at sorting things out when things happened that were too big for an elfling to solve.

"I shall ask Lord Cirdan."

Bolstered by the thought of a chance of escape and returning home, Ereinion leapt down from the chair. The shipwright would not say no, surely - not if Thatharien had no objection to the plan. He did not even have to ride away. Just the thought that he could go if he really needed to was more than enough.

Ereinion hurried along the corridor, eager to find Lord Cirdan and ask his permission to be allowed to ride a pony before he could forget or anyone could change their minds. No pony could ever be nice as Celeb of course, for his grandfather had chosen Celeb specially for him when he had been still a little child, but any horse would be better than none.

The sight of another cloak on the pegs by Cirdan's study door made him halt abruptly. It was not Lord Cirdan's cloak certainly, for it was too short, and had a brightly coloured lining under the thick grey wool. He did not think that Lord Cirdan was the kind of person to wear a cloak with a lining of a different colour.

Moving as silently as he could manage with his boots on, Ereinion crept up to the doorway and pressed his ear against to wooden panelling. It may have just been the cloak of the stable-master, but if Lord Cirdan had a guest then he did not wish to interrupt them. It would be rude to intrude without being invited, and Adar often spoke of things not meant for little ears when alone.

To Ereinion's disappointment, the owner of the cloak did seem to be in Cirdan's company, unless the shipwright was talking to himself in two different voices. They were discussing boring things like storms and storing grain, and Ereinion was just about to scuttle back to the kitchens when he heard his own name mentioned. Curious even though he knew that it was wrong to listen to other people's conversations, he lingered by the doorway, fiddling guiltily with the damp leather ties of his boots. They had been coming loose anyway.

~*~

"If he had been but any other age." Cirdan lamented, leaning back into his chair with a deep sigh. "But instead we have a ten-year-old nuisance, too old to be handed to a wet-nurse but to young to be useful."

"I am told that little elflings can be most endearing." His companion said sceptically. He was unfortunate enough to have to try an maintain an orchard close to a house in which had dwelt five such endearing little souls, and it was possible that this may have tainted his views.

"He is too young to be reasoned with even. But a foolish infant." The shipwright took a long draught from his tankard, before setting it down as he again prepared to speak. Unfortunately he was cut off by a small and very angry whirlwind charging through the door.

"I am not! I can be reasoned with!" A travel-worn boot stamped on the floor with enough force to cause the angry red face to screw up in pain. Taking a deep breath that shuddered with self-righteous rage, Ereinion turned to address the shipwright at the top of his voice. "I do reason with people. You just aren't reasoning right! You have to reason yourself round to my reasoning and you will not do it right!"

Cirdan was not yet familiar enough with children to recognise just how tired and close to tears the little prince was. Unfortunately he chose to catch his companion's eye halfway through the diatribe, and both elves burst into laughter. Ereinion paused, unsure of how to deal with this response, then marched round to halt stiffly before the chuckling shipwright.

"Stop! Stop laughing!" The first angry demands had no effect on the friends' mirth, causing a raise of voice for the further comments. "Stop. Or I shall kick you!"

The shouted threat caused the laughter to stop, and to Ereinion it seemed that for a moment the room was filled with silence. All of a sudden it seemed a terrible thing to say, and as the silence grew in length he couldn't help wondering what he was to do if they were to laugh again. The shipwright suddenly seemed an awful lot bigger, and while this afternoon he had been dismissed as old and weary, Ereinion couldn't help but notice how muscular he was and how large the rough, callused hands were. Swallowing hard at a lump that seemed to be growing in his throat, he suddenly wanted to be home very badly. He was not sure how much longer he could go without blinking to dispel the tears that were pooling in his eyes and he would not let them see him cry. He could not. In any case it would not do for the High Prince of the Noldor to cry.

Luckily this time Cirdan did recognise the brightness of the child's eyes for what it was. Sighing slightly he shifted in his chair to face the child, his mind working furiously to find a way of getting them out of this impossible situation without one or both of them ending up in tears.

"Now you could kick me." Cirdan spoke carefully, trying to avoid mentioning his assailant's diminutive size - something he guessed would offend the child. "But then I may have to punish you. For I do not allow kicking. Nor eavesdropping."

The grey eyes opened wide, and stared up at him silently for a minute. At first Cirdan thought with great satisfaction that he had managed to shame the child by mentioning his deceit, but as the child began to back away never once taking his eyes from his hands, he recognised the emotion in those eyes not as embarrassment but fear.

For a moment the shipwright was silent, effectively winded by the invisible tree trunk that seemed to have just made rapid and heavy contact with his stomach. The boy thought that he meant to hurt him. He had realised of course that every child in the Havens was more than a little afraid of his brisk attitude and blunt manner of speech, but it had never even crossed his mind that they would think that he would raise his hand to them.

Moving slowly to avoid further frightening the child, Cirdan knelt down beside the boy who was eyeing the door nervously, only later realising that in doing so he had cornered the child against the desk. The small legging- clad knees immediately began knocking together as the child's entire body began to tremble, although to Cirdan's evident relief after an awkward minute the boy took a shuddering breath and managed to pull himself together, bringing his chin up in a gesture that was both arrogant and defiant. For all the world as if he already were a King ready to face death for his people, Cirdan thought wryly.

"In this house, Ereinion, we do not get our apologies through threats or violence." The shipwright said, glad that with Ereinion at his full height and him kneeling, they could see eye to eye. "Do you understand?"

"Why yes, Lord Cirdan." The child's voice sounded unnaturally high and breathless as he rushed through his words. "I am most sorry for eavesdropping and kicking."

Cirdan sat back and rested on his hands, observing his charge with an exasperated half-smile, wondering how one so small could at once look both so terrified and defiant. He almost wanted to embrace the child, except that Cirdan never embraced small children and in any case he did not think the child's nerves would stand to such an attack as yet.

"Cirdan. For I have no desire to call you by your titles and so it would not be fair to lumber you with mine." He thought he detected a hint of a smile at that. Maybe the thought of being treated as an equal appealed to the boy. Warmed at the thought, the shipwright continued. "And I promise that I shall never hurt you."

"On your honour?" Cirdan was relieved that the pitch was now more suitable for a young boy.

"On my honour." Cirdan promised solemnly and watched as the child's entire body relaxed, although the distrustful look remained.

"In that case, I also promise not to hurt you." The child informed him with a trace of his former cockiness.

"I am grateful." Cirdan made a conscious effort to avoid his friend's eye as he returned to his seat. He had managed to make his tone so meek it would be a pity to spoil it now by laughing.

~*~

Much to Cirdan's dismay, before long his visitor left, leaving him along with the awkward task of occupying an upset, over-tired and very annoyed elfling. Not that he blamed his companion, for the young prince had decided to sit on the window seat and glare balefully at the newcomer with an expression of utter hatred. Left alone the pair had sat in unrelenting silence for a while, Ereinion sitting stiffly on the window seat watching the darkening sky, and Cirdan working determinedly on some letters that he had been carefully ignoring for the past few months. Dreary though the task was, if was far easier to find suitable words for even his least welcome correspondents than think of something to speak to the child about.

Eventually Thatharien knocked on the door and with a cheerful smile, and informed the pair that supper was served and ready for them. She had hoped that the prince and the shipwright would appear a little better acquainted after their time together, but unfortunately the atmosphere in the study seemed far from congenial. Indeed it even appeared as if the Lord of the Havens was replying to a note to one of the Sons of Fëanor that she had careful dusted around for the previous five months.

My thanks," Cirdan let out a great sigh of relief and got to his feet, glad of an excuse - any excuse - to avoid having to spend any moment longer in the strained silence. Smiling quickly at his housekeeper, he then turned to Ereinion and waved him towards the door with a quick flick of his hand, adding briskly, "Come along."

Biting his lip slightly and his eyes wide with anxiety, Ereinion scampered along behind the shipwright, trying to keep up with his long strides. He thought that he had been this way before, but he was not quite sure, and the things that caught his attention were still so new and interesting. There were pictures of sand dunes and some pretty shells arranged on a desk. The rugs were woven with wavy lines, just like the shape of the sea as it brushed against the sand. Through an open doorway he could see a big room with a huge round table and padded chairs.

"In here, Ereinion." Cirdan stopped at the doorway and turned sharply round to watch the elfling gazing dreamily round at his surroundings. The council hall seemed to have grasped his attention at the present time, and with a thought to preventing future misunderstanding, Cirdan added, "That is my council hall. You may not go in there."

Ereinion looked at him for a moment with wide eyes, then nodded quickly and hurried to stand at his host's heels.

Cirdan grunted in satisfaction and led the way into the dining room. It was a large room - it could easily have seated six or seven in addition to the shipwright - and was dominated by a polished table made from dark wood and several cupboards filled with silver and glassware. There was no tablecloth, but two plates and a number of dishes were arranged at one end of the table. Cirdan strode to the big chair with arms at the head of the table, and gave the chair to his left side a little nudge. Smiling a little, Ereinion hurried over. He always sat on his Adar's left side at home.

"Lord Cirdan?" Ereinion ventured, hovering close to his chair, unsure about how to proceed.

"Cirdan." Cirdan said firmly.

"Should I not wash my hands, Cirdan?" Ereinion looked at him in puzzlement. His nanny had always made him wash his hands before meals, and usually his face too. She had always said that dirty elflings that did not wash their hands before eating would get ill and be sick.

Cirdan paused and looked at him with an expression that seemed more suitable for a query as to whether he should eat from a trough than a simple manner of cleanliness. Finally Cirdan looked Ereinion up and down and spoke with elaborate patience. "Are your hands dirty, child?"

Ereinion glared at him and then turned to carefully examine his hands. Cirdan had spoken to him as if he was a small and stupid baby rather than a High Prince of very nearly eleven. "They are not dirty, Cirdan, but. . ."

"Then you need not wash them, Ereinion." Cirdan said sharply, taking his seat and serving himself a large portion of vegetable soup. "And do sit down, child! The food is growing cold."

Stung at this undeserved reprimand, Ereinion clambered onto his chair, glad that at least Thatharien had remembered that elflings needed cushions if they were to see over the tabletop. He would not wash his hands in future. Or his face. Especially not on cold mornings. And if anyone minded he would blame Cirdan. It would serve the grumpy old shipwright right if someone scolded him.

~*~

The meal proceeded in silence save for the chink of metal on china and the occasional irritated request to pass the pepper. The shipwright was evidently not used to having to wait or reach for anything, especially not anything removed by a sulky elfling for the sole purpose of disguising a spoonful of turnip too large to fit under even the most artfully arranged knife. Ignored and unwanted, Ereinion picked at his fish, trying to get some tasty morsels out without getting a mouthful of bones - something he seemed much less good at than the shipwright, tried to disguise his turnip and poked suspiciously at something pale and soft that smelt a little of cheese. He did not usually mind trying new things at home, especially if his Naneth and Adar seemed to be enjoying them, but Cirdan seemed to be enjoying this, and Cirdan was the kind of elf that liked turnip. Ereinion was not sure that he entirely trusted anyone who liked turnip.

"More. . ." Cirdan spoke with his mouth full, glanced briefly at Ereinion's plate and on seeing it full served himself the last fried fish.

Bitterly disappointed, Ereinion scowled as he watched the shipwright slit open the fish and somehow managed to get all the bones out in one go. It was not fair! He was hungry because the fish was the only thing that he liked, but he could not eat fast enough to finish in time to get seconds. He had only managed to get a few fragments to eat from his own fish - the difficult task made near impossible by the heavy and unwieldy cutlery.

"I do not like you!" The child spoke at last with surprising vehemence, digging his fork viciously into his untouched mound of potato while he watched Cirdan. Grey eyes bright with defiance, pride and a hint of apprehension, he waited to see what the shipwright would do next.

Cirdan looked up looking, to Ereinion's disappointment, not particularly interested and finished his forkful of fish without haste.

"And nor I you." The shipwright spoke calmly, meeting the challenging eyes briefly before returning his attentions to his plate where he was sculpting a carrot into a possible new design for a load-bearing beam. If he could only move the notch a little to the left. . .

A very small and unwilling sniff disturbed him, and it was with some annoyance that he tore his mind away from his vegetables to turn once again to the newcomer. The young prince was now sitting perfectly upright, his chin stuck out at a ferocious angle, and his cheeks flushed angrily. Flickering light from the hanging lantern highlighted tears at the edges of dark and troubled eyes. Tears that he could not or would not shed.

"Of course," Cirdan added hesitantly, "I do not yet know you. When we have got to know each other, I am sure that I will like you very much."

The rigid and rather bony shoulders relaxed slightly and the boy peeped out of the corner of his eyes for a few seconds before allowing Cirdan an incredibly tiny smile.

"Yes. I think that I might like you very much too."

It was raining outside. The howling wind brought great sheets of water crashing against the windows and tugged and pulled at the bent and gnarled trees that sheltered the western side of the house. Inside though, it was warm and cosy, especially in the small room where Ereinion was now seated.

Much as Ereinion hated to admit it, he liked Lord Cirdan's sitting room very much indeed. Far more than he liked the shipwright, in fact. It was very warm and had lots of colourful rugs on the floor. There was a wide window seat running around the room, a number of tall bookcases, a few chairs scattered with soft cushions and a large fireplace dominating one wall. He felt safe in here, and it reminded him a little of home.

It had only taken him a few minutes to gather an armful of cushions and create a little nest for himself in one corner of the window seat, and he was sitting there now, staring out into the storm and pretending that he was not interested into whatever Cirdan had gone to fetch.

A thin trail of water was running from a hinge of the paned glass, trickling down to a pool on the window ledge. He had dabbled his fingers in the cold puddle and traced his name on the pale stone of the window ledge before becoming afraid that Cirdan would notice and would mind. He had wiped out his name now, and was racing drops of water as they hurried down the windowpanes. Sometimes a soggy dead leaf would come flying through the storm and stick to the window for a little while before being washed away by the rainstorm, and sometimes he could see the branches of the pine tree catch the light from an upstairs window as they were whipped this way and that in the gale. It was not boring, even if it was lonely, and he was still trying to imagine names for the shadow shapes in the shrubbery when Cirdan strode back into the room.

Frowning slightly, Cirdan paused with his woodwork box in hand and looked hard at Ereinion. In feasts and celebrations those elves with families usually managed to dispose of the smaller and messier guests by this time in the evening. Indeed he had rarely, if ever, seen a child at a formal dinner. Rather cunningly their parents must have developed a method of disposing of them before anyone wished to move onto more serious topics of conversation.

"Ereinion," Cirdan looked sternly at his guest, "Should you not be in bed?"

"No. . ." Ereinion spoke instinctively then paused. He was tired enough for it to be his bedtime, but it was warm and safe down here, and he did not even know where he was to sleep or if there would be anyone nearby. He licked his lips nervously and glanced up at the ornately carved wooden and brass clock that stood on the shelf above the fire. The golden and amber inlays of the sun had curved far below the level, and the tiny silver and mithril stars were visible above the notches that indicated the hours of dawn and dusk. Back at home he had been allowed to stay up for two hours after his supper before having to retire for his bath. Since he had been sent away to a place where he did not know anyone and nobody liked him, perhaps it would be all right to stay up a little longer. Just to make it fair. Maybe his father had meant him to. "Adar said that I was to stay up two hours after dinner."

It was a lie, however much Ereinion tried to reason himself into thinking that his supper and formal meals were very almost the same thing, and he flushed a violent shade of pink. It seemed even worse to lie with his Adar's name, so Ereinion quickly amended himself. "I am to stay up for two hours, Lord Cirdan."

Cirdan grunted and nodded slightly at Ereinion as he set down the box and began unpacking saws, knifes and drills in tiny sizes. Fingon had always been fond of dining and dancing late into the night, and it seemed that his small son had been brought up in a similar manner. While the prospect of having to share his peaceful evenings with the prince did not endear him in Cirdan's mind, it would be hoped that the boy also shared the High King's fondness for slumbering late in the mornings. He did not think that he could endure a guest similar to the running and squealing children that so often disturbed the silence of his early morning swims.

Rather surprised at the shipwright's easy acceptance of this untruth, Ereinion walked quietly and precisely over to the part of the window seat furthest from the fire in the hope that the cooler temperatures would ease his burning cheeks. He turned his back on the shipwright to scramble up onto the seat and when he turned back to the high-backed bench opposite him, Cirdan was frowning down at a small block of wood as he turned it in his hands. He had clearly already forgotten that his young guest even existed.

~*~

Ereinion watched Cirdan from a distance, entranced by the way a small figurehead in the shape of a swan had been formed, but too proud to ask to have a closer look. It was lonely sitting here by himself, watching the shipwright in silence. He felt tired and alone, and although he did not want to admit it even to himself, would much rather have been warm and cosy tucked up under his quilt. Back at home his Adar or grandfather would often take it in turns to come in before going down to dinner, and they would read to him or tell him tales of life in Aman or their childhoods. The formal gowns that they wore for the evenings were made of deeply coloured silk and velvet, and they were gloriously warm and soft to snuggle into. Being cuddled always made him feel safe and sleepy.

Still watching Cirdan intently Ereinion slithered along the windowseat, using his hands to propel himself along the polished wood until he was sitting next to the bookcase. There were no interesting books here either, at least as far as he could see - which was not very high. Just volume upon volume of history of the Havens. Not something that anyone would want to read. They did not even have any thicker pages for pictures.

He sat alone on the edge of the bench awhile, watching as the shipwright neatly set out some tools and bits of wood on the bench beside him. Then, when the sea-elf bent his head to seek out a particular tin of tiny nails, Ereinion slipped from the bench and padded silently over to the next bench and scrambled up onto the seat to slither further around the room.

~*~

Cirdan carefully adjusted the fastening of the figurehead, balancing the ship between two fingers to ensure that it would float level. Making model ships had been a hobby of his for many hundreds of years, something that he had begun after despairing of the quality of the toys that the children played with on the shore. At first he had been satisfied with creating small ships in perfect working order, but soon he had begun experimenting with new designs or making decorative ships for special occasions. Nodding in satisfaction, Cirdan set the ship back down in his lap and reached for a knife to carve the final details to the swan's eyes and beak.

"Can I see?" A plaintive voice from his right side caused the shipwright to turn around with an exclamation of surprise. He had completely forgotten the presence of his guest, and to find that the elfling was now perched inches from his elbow was more than a little disconcerting.

"Please, Lord Cirdan." Ereinion added hastily, somewhat taken aback by the shipwright's reaction to his request.

"Cirdan." Cirdan reminded him brusquely.

"Can I see then?" Ereinion squirmed onto his knees and leant closer to the shipwright. "Why were you balancing it? What are you doing now?"

Cirdan shuffled a few inches further down the seat and spoke gruffly. "I am using a sharp knife, Ereinion."

"Oh." Ereinion watched as Cirdan settled the ship into his left hand and made a few strokes with the blade. "What is that bit for?"

Fortunately Cirdan was able to stop the knife just before it took a slice from two small pink fingers. "Do not do that, Ereinion!"

Flinching at the shipwright's bellow, Ereinion scooted back across the seat, his eyes wide in fear.

"You must be careful when I am using knifes," Cirdan explained, feeling a little guilty at how seriously the elfling took his reprimands. "I slice off fingers or toes as easily as I carve wood."

Ereinion's eyes became even wider, but he inched back to his original position where he could see what the shipwright was doing more closely although he did not attempt to touch the ship again.

Grunting a vague expression of satisfaction, Cirdan resumed his craftwork, explaining what he was doing slowly and carefully as he worked. Ereinion watched intently, at first sitting as stiffly as he could in order to avoid an accidental wrongdoing, but then as the evening wore on and the room got warmer and cosier he let his head droop closer and closer to the shipwright's arm.

The moment the boy's cheek touched against his shirt-sleeve, Cirdan started violently, his knife jumping so quickly that he nearly sliced his own fingers off. Glaring down at the small dark head that was leaning against his arm, the shipwright awkwardly shuffled a little further down the seat - just far enough for it no longer to be comfortable for Ereinion to rest his head in such a manner. Displeasing though the thought of a self-important young elven prince had been, it held no comparison to a sleepy child in search of a substitute for its mother. Shuddering at the thought, Cirdan ignored the bewildered look that Ereinion gave him and resumed carving with a vengeance.

A little confused, Ereinion stared at Cirdan for a moment, wondering if the sea-elf was so stupid that he did not know how to cuddle elflings any more than he knew how to hold hands. Certainly the shipwright was not the cuddliest elf that he had ever seen, especially with all his nasty prickly hedgehoggy bits, bit surely everyone knew how to cuddle someone. Perhaps he just wanted to be sure that he could reach his tools. And he was nearly sitting on his thumbtacks by now, so that would not be a problem any more. Satisfied by this explanation, Ereinion wriggled closer to Cirdan's taut body and once again leant his head against the rough fabric of the shipwright's sleeve.

Trapped between a snuggling elfling and a selection of sharp and dangerous implements, Cirdan resigned himself to the inevitable and shifted his elbow to allow Ereinion to squirm into a more comfortable position, all the while speaking smoothly to ensure that any watchers would not mistake this as an admission of defeat.

"Now, here I have to make sure that all the notches are in the right place before I fit the deck."

~*~

"I think Adar's ship got broken once." Ereinion said knowledgeably, kicking his feet against the wooden panelling of the seat. "He and Agi. . . my grandfather talked about it sometimes."

One of Cirdan's brows twitched slightly but he did not speak, merely frowning as he tested the strength of a piece of wood.

"I think that my grandfather made it for him." Ereinion sucked on the tip of his middle finger as he considered the fragments that he had heard over the years. He did not think that his grandfather would have got angry about a toy being spoilt unless someone had been careless and he had spent a lot of time making it. "He did not like it being broken, I think."

Cirdan's frown deepened and his hand brushed against a round tin of tiny brass tacks sending them tumbling from the bench onto the ground. Before he even had time to react Ereinion had sprung to his feet and was chasing about after the gleaming tacks.

"It was an accident though, I think Adar said." Ereinion carefully knelt down on a clear bit of floor to pick up the tacks and drop them one by one into the tin. He had never been allowed to play with sharp things like this at home, although his Adar had often spun the short nails that fastened the leather folders of parchment skitzing across the tabletop. Surely Cirdan would not mind if he kept one little tack to himself.

"An accident?" The shipwright's voice held a strange tone, but Ereinion paid little attention as he gathered the last few tacks together and dropped all but one of them into the tin.

"Yes," Ereinion straightened up and handed the tin to Cirdan with a wavering smile. The little tack that he had clenched in his fist felt a lot bigger now than it had when he had picked it up from the floor. "It was his friend that broke it."

Cirdan was silent a moment after this matter-of-fact statement, but then nodded slowly and nudged the lid back onto the tin with one hand. "Aye, my thanks."

Ereinion looked at the shut tin and then back at the shipwright. He should say something polite about it being his pleasure to help or just smile helpfully but the words stuck in his throat. Cirdan should not be thanking him when he had taken something without asking. The tack had become warm in his grasp, and its point was digging into his palm a little.

Surprised by the hesitant silence, Cirdan looked up from his carpentry and surveyed the child critically. Ereinion had gone very red and he looked so terribly unhappy and guilty that Cirdan did not feel that it could be ignored.

"Ereinion?" The shipwright's bushy brows lowered slightly as he tried to guess what had caused such a sudden change in the child's demeanour.

Ereinion gulped and patted his clenched fist against his thigh. Cirdan did not seem to have noticed the missing tack and did not sound angry, but he had stolen. His Adar did not allow thieves in his household, and if he told Cirdan what he would done then he might be sent away to someone else. But who would want a thief to stay with them?

"Ereinion," Cirdan's voice became tinged with alarm as he noticed a single unwelcome tear slip down the child's flushed cheek, "What is wrong?"

"I. . ." Ereinion swallowed hard and pressed his lips tightly together to hold back the imminent tears. Moving slowly he held out his hand and unfurled his fist to reveal the stolen tack. It was smaller than it had become in his mind, and he suddenly wanted to throw it away.

"Ah. Thank you." Cirdan held out his cupped hand beneath Ereinion's palm to allow him to tip the tack into his hand, then deposited it into the tin. "Is that all of them?"

Ereinion looked down at the floor, keen eyes scanning the polished planks of wood for any sign of more of the little tacks then nodded. It felt better now that he was not holding the tack, but he did not see how Cirdan could let his stolen tack join the others as if nothing had happened. His eyes were beginning to get hot and itchy and his nose was starting to snuffle.

The comments on the ships had not been tactful to say the least, but that was little cause for tears. Indeed the child seemed to have little idea of what he was speaking.

"Did you. . ." Cirdan took the small hand in his own and examined it carefully. It would take an extraordinarily stupid child to manage to hurt himself on such a blunt object, and he could see no sign of a puncture wound, but something had upset the young prince badly.

"I am sorry." Ereinion whispered unhappily, speaking primarily to the shipwright's feet. There was a hole wearing through at the toe of one of the large socks and the grey wool had worn through to scuffed and linty matted fabric. "I only wanted to keep one to be like Adar."

Cirdan looked at him with an expression of great puzzlement and then turned back to the tin with a thoughtful expression. "Like your Adar. . ."

Ereinion shifted miserably from foot to foot then as a terrible thought occurred to him, burst out, "Adar would never steal, Lord Cirdan! I wanted to spin it like Adar does."

"Cirdan." Cirdan reminded him shortly then frowned as he pondered what the boy had said. Presumably he had meant to keep one for himself, but he would not have considered that a misdemeanour worthy of tears. They were only small, and he had more than he would need. "Do you want a tack, child?"

Ereinion cast the tin with all the little shiny tacks a last longing glance then shook his head. He would never feel big and grown-up and important now, even if he had a whole tin of tacks. It would just be a reminder of his naughtiness.

"No." Cirdan confirmed, his voice still holding a note of confusion. But a minute ago the boy had wanted one enough to steal, and now he would not taken one even when offered. "No matter. It would not have spun in any case."

"It would not?" Ereinion echoed, tentatively scrambling back onto the bench. He had tried spinning pegs and pins but they had not worked either.

"No." Cirdan shook his head in a preoccupied manner, secretly pleased by the child's interest. Perhaps tomorrow if he had a spare moment he might gather a few screws, nails and bolts in different sizes to demonstrate the lesson. "It is too long, and the head too small."

For the moment though, whether or not the promised two hours had passed, it was high time that tearful, grumpy little elves were sent to their beds. Cirdan set down the little ship, absently extended a hand towards a spot on the bench several feet from the boy and was surprised when he took it without question or fuss.

"I shall show you where you will sleep."

~*~

Ereinion's new bedroom was large, far larger than his bedroom and playroom combined back home. The floor was made of wood and the walls were of pale stone. Large paned windows stared into the darkness outside, and a door led out onto a balcony. Several brass lanterns were hung from hooks about the room, lighting it with a pleasant golden glow.

Somebody had clearly made an effort to make the room welcoming for a child. A striped blanket in shades of blues and sandy yellows was spread over the overlarge bed, and a small vase of colourful sea pinks was arranged on the desk. A model boat had been placed on the shelf above the fireplace, along with a dried starfish and some pretty shells.

"It is a big room." Ereinion said with his eyes on the floor, only stirring to give the huge bed a miserable look.

Cirdan gave him a puzzled look. Surely a child would appreciate extra play space. In any case it was one of his finest guestrooms, and only chosen due to the assertions of his housekeeper that he could not shut a little boy off in some lonely room at the other end of the house.

"I hope that you find it comfortable." Cirdan said absently as he passed through a doorway into the bathroom. "Here Ereinion, this is where you shall wash."

The boy trotted obediently into the room, and looked sadly at the large tub. Seeing the gloomy expression Cirdan drew in his breath in an annoyed hiss.

"What is wrong, Ereinion?"

Ereinion looked up at him doubtfully then concentrated on drilling the toe of his boot into the floorboards.

"I. . . I do not wish to disturb you, Cirdan." He murmured unhappily, his hand moving up towards his mouth, "If I shout loudly in here, will you be disturbed in your room?"

Cirdan looked into the fire for a while then stretched, bringing his shoulders back.

"I think that you might disturb me, Ereinion," Cirdan said thoughtfully. "Then I might have to come and find out what cause you have for making such a noise."

His smile was so sudden and so large that Ereinion had little chance to hide it, and to his surprise Cirdan found himself smiling too.

"Hurry now, get to bed."

Ereinion allowed himself to be shooed towards the bathroom and its large steaming bathtub and started taking off his boots. Satisfied that the prince would be all right, Cirdan turned to leave.

"I cannot undo my buttons." Ereinion looked at him, his eyes half challenging and half ashamed.

"Now. . ." Cirdan turned back to the boy, giving him a searching look. "I am sure that a boy who is ten years old is quite capable of undoing his buttons by himself."

Ereinion's cheeks turned pink and he looked down at the floor. Cirdan was almost sure that he could see the dark eyes brimming with tears.

"Well. . . where are these buttons?" Cirdan asked in a frustrated voice. Ereinion flinched and took a deep breath in.

"My back. I cannot reach them." He was now speaking in such a small and timid voice that Cirdan had difficulty believing that it was the same child that had threatened him with violence a few hours earlier.

Without a word Cirdan knelt down, and brushed the dark hair aside to undo the buttons. The child's small body froze rigid the second that his fingers made contact with the bony shoulders, and he could see from the movement of Ereinion's chest that his breathing rate had increased.

"I will not hurt you, child." Cirdan's voice was tinged with frustration, a fact that Ereinion did not miss. The moment that Cirdan had finished fumbling with the tiny buttons, the boy shot forwards a few feet. Hissing in irritation, Cirdan got to his feet and strode silently from the room, leaving Ereinion to finish undressing and scramble with difficulty into his bath.

~*~

With the High Prince dismissed until the morning, Cirdan hurried downstairs to his council room where Thatharien had left the remainder of the letters and packages that had been sent from Hithlum. He was eager to finish such business tonight, since the arrival of an infant prince seemed set to leave him with little time to call his own for tomorrow at least.

He would have to see Andir, the keeper of his library, about finding some suitable books for the child. It was sure to be a difficult task, for Fingon had requested that the child was to continue his study of Quenya and there were few who would be prepared to teach him. In addition he would not be quite at peace until he had had the boy seen by the healers. Ereinion was thin enough to cause anyone alarm, but there was something in the child's eyes that worried Cirdan yet more. Those of his soldiers with elflings as small as this were assigned carefully, and he could remember being told of children that had escaped from attack only to have their spirits fade. It had been many weeks since he had seen Ranlhach in any case, for the healers had been busy of late, and knowing that the child was well would put his mind at rest.

Putting the child from his mind, Cirdan stirred the fire back into life and sat down on the rug amidst the piles of papers and packages that Thatharien had arranged for him. The letters were for the most part rather boring, and did not merit an uncharacteristically prompt response. Others, especially those sent by the High King himself, were rather more thought-provoking, and a good few hours had passed before he moved on to investigate the parcels.

As usual there were a number of bundles of the brightly coloured fabrics favoured by the Noldor, copies of maps and important documents, an unwanted gift of an intricate wire brooch, and rather more interesting a further package containing a number of additional items for his guest. It did not take long for Cirdan to deduce why these belongings had not been grouped with the others - many of these were breathtakingly beautiful and with a value greater than large sections of his city.

There were tiny brooches shaped as leaves or stars, jewelled pendants, and ridiculously small circlets. A thin leather pouch held a flute of silver and mithril, and a half-sized sword lay bundled with a wooden bow adorned with inlays of gold and emerald. A small bundle wrapped in layer upon layer of grey silk revealed a flat wooden box, the gold script that had once decorated the polished surface having been rubbed off many hundreds of years earlier. Resting the box in the palms of both hands, Cirdan closed his eyes for a moment before slowly opening the lid and confirming what he had feared. Nestled in soft velvet was a mithril circlet, adorned with jewels and adorned with Quenya script.

Fingon did not expect Ereinion to return then.

Shutting the box with a snap, Cirdan hurriedly re-wrapped the box in tight folds of silk. For a brief moment he thought of the little elf upstairs, a strange feeling growing inside his chest. Ereinion did not know that this had been sent with him, and Cirdan found himself making a silent pledge that he would never find out. The child may be small, but he was not stupid, and the significance of such a finding would not pass him by.

Finally, with the package hidden deep in a locked drawer in his desk, Cirdan returned to his council room, hastily unpacking the final items and stowing them away in cupboards or on shelves. He no longer had any wish to read or reply to his letters. The storm had grown steadily worse throughout the evening, but he did not think that it was yet bad enough that it would be dangerous to walk on the shore. He needed the cold loneliness of the beach to allow his thoughts to form. Only a few hours ago he had been expecting to host a young elf for a number of years; now he faced bringing up a child alone - a child who, if Fingon's fears were founded, would before long inherit the High Kingship of the Noldor.

It was not a responsibility that he would have ever accepted.

Sighing, Cirdan shook out and folded the leather packs, and stacked them neatly on a chair. As he picked up the last empty pack something small and floppy fell from a pocket and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Puzzled, Cirdan shifted it to-and-fro with a toe. It was undoubtedly meant to be an approximation at some sort of animal, for it had two bead eyes and a patch of black leather for a nose, but the shapeless body was made from well worn patches of a soft fluffy material in shades of brown and cream. One of the pink ears was especially threadbare, and the tail had recently been sewn back on with thread of a different colour.

Presumably it was one of the child's toys, but Cirdan was sure that he had already seen a small pile of playthings in Ereinion's room. Although he did not know a great deal about toys, an infant's stuffed animal did not seem to fit with the painted wooden soldiers, carved horses and pouch of marbles that he had seen. Wondering why Fingon had packed such an unappealing and worthless object along with the most precious of Ereinion's possessions, Cirdan placed the last pack on the chair, grabbed the creature from the floor and headed upstairs to deposit it with its rightful owner. There would never be a place for such an item in his council chamber.

The bed was empty and the door that led out onto the terrace was open and banging in the wind. Quite a large puddle of water had formed on the floor by the open door, indicating that wherever the boy had gone, he had been for quite some time.

"Ereinion?" Círdan entered the room and placed the stuffed animal down on the dresser by the doorway and peered into the shadowy corners and dark nooks and crannies. "Ereinion!"

Even his sharp and irritated call did not bring the elfling scurrying out of wherever he had hidden himself, and now becoming rather worried, Círdan walked over to the open doorway with a speed that spoke of an anxiety that even his face did not betray.

It was a wild night outside, with the wind howling in from the sea and the rain beating harshly against the side of the house. The moon and stars were covered with thick cloud, but he could just make out the dark silhouette of the trees thrashing in the storm.

"Ereinion!" Círdan raised his voice to a mighty bellow in an effort to be heard above the noise of the storm. The wind was howling mournfully around the house and the wind and rain whipped some loose strands of silver hair against his face. The balustrades were high at this point, so it was unlikely that the boy had been blown down to the ground or had gone further than the east facing terrace, but it was dark and stormy and he was not entirely happy with the idea that one so small should be out here alone.

There was no reply, but as he peered into the deeper shadows in the corner he thought that he could make out a small crouched figure with its face turned up to the stars. Perhaps the boy had thought it a good hiding place, but then he was of the Noldor. Those that had long dwelt in Aman often forgot what light there might still be in darkness.

"Ereinion!" Círdan strode over to the child's side and looked down at him to bellow in a voice sure to be heard even over the most terrible gale. "Why are you not in bed?"

There was an anguished yelp and a pale shape shot back across the stonework from under the wet tread of his socks. Moving quickly, Círdan caught a rather rough hold of the boy's wrist, instantly regretting the action when he felt how thin the child's arm was under the clinging cloth of his sleeve.

"Inside!" Círdan pulled the boy to his feet, and glared down at him with obvious frustration. "What in Arda possessed you, Ereinion?"

Gulping, Ereinion fumbled a hand towards the smooth wood of the balustrades and held on with all his strength. He had not seen the stars yet, and if he did not then maybe Naneth would not and she would think that he had forgotten her. But he had not. He wanted Naneth now more than anyone.

"Ereinion." Círdan stopped and turned to Ereinion as the boy attempted to fasten his hold on the railings. His voice held a distinct warning tone by now, and he had come to except complete obedience whenever he felt he had to speak in such a manner. He had never truly believed that a child was completely without thought or reason before, rather considering them as a small and not particularly wise elves, but now he had to agree that his companion had been correct. And shipwrights did not like being proven wrong.

"I cannot see the stars." Ereinion explained in a frustrated voice that was verging on tears as he tried to resist the pull of Círdan's hand. "Naneth promised that she and I should see the same stars."

"It is cloudy, child!" Círdan jerked his arm forward angrily, sending the child stumbling down onto his hands and knees. "You shall see no stars tonight."

Crouching on the wet stonework Ereinion scowled at the shipwright's damp socks and gulped back tears. He had grazed his knees, his left palm was stinging and he must have been outside for longer than he had thought for his soaked nightshirt was clinging to his legs and arms. "But Naneth promised. . ."

Realising that he was whining, Ereinion made a determined but unsuccessful attempt to sound more reasonable. "I want to stay."

"Ereinion!" Círdan snapped, grabbing hold of the child's shoulder and pulling him into a sitting position. "Inside. You are not to come out here at night again."

He had not meant to sound so angry, but it did seem to have a number of desirable effects for after a moment or two of quivering, Ereinion scrambled to his feet and stood silently by his side, ignoring the hand that was offered to help him up.

They marched quickly inside, the young prince scurrying and tripping after the shipwright's long strides. It was bitter night, still closer to the winter frosts than the mild of spring, and the child had felt worryingly chill. He should have never have let it be possible for him to sneak outside in such a manner. The boy was so light that he might have been blown from the walls and had he not found him, Círdan suspected that he would still have been there in the grey of the morning.

Ereinion skipped smartly inside when Círdan halted by the door, taking the opportunity to give the shipwright a long worried glance. Círdan was scowling ferociously which probably meant that he was very angry with him. Although he wanted to explain that he had not meant to make him angry and that he was sorry and that he had only wanted to see the stars that his Naneth was seeing too, the words did not seem to be there. He did not feel like saying anything at all any more. And now Círdan had placed the storm- bolt across the door and it was too heavy for him to move by himself. Maybe he was not supposed to think of his Naneth and Adar anymore.

"Come now, get to bed." Círdan said briskly, patting the mattress firmly and tugging the child forward with his other hand. The sheets were rather rumpled and bundled up but he had little intention of remaking it at this hour. Children would probably not notice such things in any case. "It is late, Ereinion!"

The note of frustration in the last comment seemed to break through the child's despondence, and Ereinion increased his pace and scurried to the side of the bed where he made a few pitiful and extremely slow attempts to scramble up onto the mattress.

"Here." Making his voice deliberately grumpy to avoid the child mistaking his actions for kindness rather than impatience, Círdan closed his hands around the child's ribcage and swung him roughly up onto the bed. The boy was lighter than he had thought a child could be, and his bones felt so small and fragile that the shipwright placed the child down carefully amidst the sheets rather than dropping him as he had intended. He could feel the child's heart beating frantically inside his chest, and his breathing was far from regular.

"Am I to sleep now?" Ereinion asked quietly, wriggling in his soaked nightshirt to try and get rid of a crease that was bothering him.

"Aye. . . no," Círdan hesitated as he plucked some of the wet garment between his finger and thumb. Tempting though it was to ignore the problem for Thatharien had long retired to her own chambers, the boy was too cold and miserable to be neglected. "You are too wet."

"I am sorry, Lord Círdan." Ereinion spoke in a meek little voice, looking up at him with a painfully sad expression. Someone had unpacked all his clothes onto shelves that he could not reach, pushing the chair across the room would make too much noise at this time of night, and he did not know where Thatharien was.

"Círdan." Círdan corrected roughly, hoisting the child back into his arms and standing up straight. The shelves to the left of the fireplace were filled with small piles of folded cloth in a variety of colours, and surmising that they were his guest's garments, the shipwright strode rapidly across the room to stand before them.

Feeling rather uncertain at the sudden and unfamiliar motion, Ereinion fumbled for a handhold, eventually curling his arm around the shipwright's neck. Círdan did not seem to be very good at carrying people either, for he had forgotten to put a hand on his back or wrap his hand around his knees to keep him steady. Naneth would not have liked that much, and in truth he had felt much safer when his grandfather was throwing him in the air than now when he was perched on Círdan's arm.

"Now, have you more nightshirts?" Círdan stopped abruptly, nearly sending the child off balance, and ran an eye over the contents of the shelves. Everything seemed incredibly small even for a young boy, and he had little idea of where to start.

"They are. . ." Ereinion moved his head from side to side as he looked at the objects on the shelves, giving each a barely perceptible nod as he checked them off. "There."

The prince stretched out a thin arm to pat a bundle of soft cream coloured cloth, then smiled approvingly as Círdan picked one off the top of the pile. Nodding his thanks, Círdan shook out the fabric to check that it was indeed the desired nightgown, inwardly marvelling that anyone would take the time to stitch stars and leaves around the hems and cuffs of so tiny a garment.

"Oh." Ereinion's voice was full of disappointment, and looking up from his silent contemplation of the embroidery Círdan noticed that the boy's lower lip was quivering.

"Ereinion?" Círdan arched a bushy silver brow at the boy and waited, nightshirt on one arm and child on the other. The child was clearly over- tired and perilously close to tears, and he did not wish to provide an excuse for any such outburst.

"I. . . I. . ." Now paying little attention to his safety, Ereinion wriggled around to reach across and rummage through the remaining nightshirts. "I thought it was another one."

"They are different?" Círdan looked more closely at the pile. The boy clearly thought this of heartbreaking importance, but each looked identical to him.

"Naneth made me a special one." The child continued shuffling through the garments, moving too fast to properly examine each one, and making a fine mess of Thatharien's tidy stack. "With little grey eagles and special gold stars. . ."

The last nightshirt was discarded untidily on the shelf and Ereinion's face crumpled in dismay, despite his efforts to control himself by taking deep breaths, ". . .I think that she might have forgotten it."

Finally defeated by the happenings of the day, the small body sagged against Círdan's own. Worried that he might drop the child, the shipwright wrapped both arms around Ereinion's shaking body and awkwardly patted his hand against the boy's back. The child could not begin sobbing now - not when they had successfully navigated through the day without incident. He had no idea how to deal with or comfort a crying child. He had seen them cry for a bruised knee or a bruised elbow, or for hunger or fear or want of some fancy, but Ereinion was not hurting and needed nothing. Fortunately for both of them though, this motion snagged the very edge of one dangling nightshirt, and moving rapidly to catch it as it fell, Círdan caught a glimpse of a border of painstakingly embroidered eagle chicks and gold and silver stars.

"Here, Ereinion!" Rather embarrassed by the amount of triumph in his voice, Círdan shook the child's shoulder for attention. "Is this not it?"

Ereinion looked bleakly up at him then smiled a little, the tears in his eyes disappearing as quickly as they had come. "Naneth made it."

"Aye." The shipwright nodded slowly then briskly shifted Ereinion in his arms, took the favoured nightshirt in one hand and carried the boy through to the bathing chamber where he sat down on the stool and proceeded to roughly dry the child with a spare bath towel. Huddled limply in Círdan's lap, Ereinion let himself be pushed to-and-fro as the shipwright rubbed his hair and limbs. He was rubbing more vigorously than other people did and it was pulling and tangling his hair, but Ereinion did not like to complain in case Círdan became cross. The shipwright obviously thought him a nuisance for his body was taut and what words he spoke were curt and impatient.

Huffing with exaggerated impatience, Círdan gave the damp hair a last rub and threw the towel into a wooden box by the door. Ereinion turned to look doubtfully at him, rumpled tangles of damp hair falling down over his dark eyes, and stretched his arms up into the air. The shipwright looked at him with a perplexed air for a moment before realising what was intended and slipping the nightshirt over the child's head. Dressing a child was rather more difficult than it looked, even with Ereinion doing his best to help. The moment that the garment was over his arms the boy seemed to turn into a mass of bony elbows and shoulders that would hinder the progress of the soft fabric, and small fingers that would catch in the cuffs or collar. Eventually though they managed to get all the relevant holes and sleeves in the right place and emerging from the garment, Ereinion shook his head vigorously to shake the hair from his face.

"Thank you." Ereinion whispered meekly, closing his fist around one of the baby eagles on the hem and holding on so tightly that his knuckles went pale.

Círdan grunted uncomfortably and stood up, boosting Ereinion up so that he could get a hold around his neck when the boy began fumbling at his chest in something of a panic in an effort to steady himself. He did not like being thanked by others, especially when he did not feel that he had done anything worthy of recognition and praise.

"It is time to sleep now." Círdan carried the boy over to the bed and placed him down on the mattress, standing over the bed as Ereinion wriggled under the blankets. That done, Círdan turned abruptly and headed for the doorway where an oil lamp was filling the room with a soft glow. Despite the nuisance of this evening he should still have time to read a little of his book before he wished to sleep.

"Oh, and I found this among some things that your father sent me." Remembering the reason for the late night visit in the first place, Círdan half-turned at the door to absently touch the stuffed animal on the dresser. "Does this belong to you?"

"Arassë!"

The delighted yelp caused Círdan to spin round to find Ereinion sitting up in bed, arms outstretched, and beaming at him with an expression of awe more suitable for an omnipotent power or one mighty among the Valar than a humble shipwright. Something seemed to have been rekindled in the child's eyes, and despite his obvious tiredness he suddenly seemed more alive.

"It is yours?" Embarrassed by the boy's obvious thankfulness, Círdan picked up the small creature and tossed it casually across the room to land lightly at Ereinion's side. "Catch!"

Still smiling, Ereinion grabbed at the little fawn and rubbed its nose against his cheek. Suddenly the room did not seem so big and lonely, and the frightening big bed actually looked rather cosy, and he was so very tired. It was just that nobody was here to read to him and the blankets were all screwed up and difficult to smooth out.

"Come now, it is time for you to sleep." Seeing that the child would not settle without his aid, Círdan crossed the room and drew back the covers, shaking out the rumples and smoothing out the sheets. Smiling now, Ereinion obediently squirmed into a laying position and carefully moved Arassë so the black bead eyes could see out.

Círdan lowered the sheets down over the child, pulling the covers up the Ereinion's chin. "Are you warm?"

Ereinion nodded rather sleepily, wriggling so that the wool of the blanket would not tickle his chin then remembering his manners, added politely. "Goodnight, Círdan."

Grunting a response, Círdan walked over to the lamp by the door and dimmed it into darkness. He pulled open the door, ready to retire to his own chambers then feeling a sudden desire to offer what comfort he could to the child added, "I shall be in my room."

Holding the door open to allow a narrow slit of light to fall down across the bed, Círdan paused for a moment looking down severely at Ereinion, giving him a chance to say if he was still uncomfortable. The child certainly looked happier and more relaxed than he had been since his arrival, although in truth he was probably too sleepy to do anything else. Frowning a little, he suddenly nodded sharply and began turning when a quiet voice interrupted him.

"I like you, Círdan." Ereinion smiled briefly at him and wrapped his arms around Arassë, snuggling the toy fawn close to him with a blissful expression. "You find things."

Ereinion was still fast asleep when Cirdan looked in on him the next morning. He had clearly not slept easily, for he was tangled up in the crumpled sheets and his pale cheeks were stained with tears, but he seemed peaceful enough now with his cheek resting on Arassë’s soft fur, and it did not seem fair to disturb him.

Slipping from the room as silently as he had come, Cirdan hurried downstairs and in due course out onto the beach. A long walk would do him good, especially in the peace of the early hours of the morning. It would be a fine day later, for the sky was blue without even a wisp of cloud, but for now the sunlight was pale and cool. The first of the fishing boats had come in from the bay, and the gulls were circling over the harbour, their shrill calls sounding clear over the calm water.

Singing softly to himself, Cirdan strode along the barren shore, stopping here and there to pick up the shaft of an arrow or a rough fragment of iron. He did his best to keep the evidence of the conflict that was upon the elves of Middle-earth from these shores. Even those weapons that had been cleansed by the sea might still bear some trace of poison.

It did not seem apt that this day should seem so fresh and bright, when the shadows on one family’s life were so long and dark. Fingon had yet been young when they had last met – foolhardy and rash, perhaps – but brave and strong. He had wed since then, a Sindarian girl, and by all accounts as coolly determined as her husband. It hardly seemed fair that they should be deprived of so much in what should have been the most joyful years of their marriage. Even in the brightest future, Ereinion would not return home until he was a young elf close to his majority. At the worst, the child would never see his parents again.

He had watched parents with elflings many a time, and it had not taken considered thought to realise that he was not ideally suited for the task of bringing up a child. For a start he did not like children, especially those of the small and wriggly variety. Nor did he like playing with toy boats, helping squealing infants dangle bits of bacon off the quayside, or picking books of few words and many pictures from the library. He had no patience for those that would hop, skip or balance when he wished to hurry, little desire to show sticky little fingers how to reel in a fish or carve a whistle, and a long history of lack of ability at calming tears and tantrums.

And as for caring for such little souls – until last night he had not realised how utterly useless elflings were. He had never been married, never had children – never even had been a child. He did not even know how to help a child with buttons, shoelaces and whatever else small fingers could not manage. The struggles of helping an infant prince grow into a King capable of leading his people against the mightiest of enemies, for the moment would have to be left. Even the everyday matters would present challenge enough.

Sighing, Cirdan looked out across the smooth grey-blue of the sea to the very edge of the horizon. The shipwright had always had an instinct for brewing storms, and bright day although it was, he did not doubt that there would be dark clouds by nightfall.

~*~

Living in the shipwright’s home was, Ereinion decided, a lot like being very small again. Everything needed jumping or scrambling for and he had had to drag the chair in from the bedroom in order to reach the basin. Even so, the pitcher of warm water that someone had left ready for him was rather too heavy to lift, and instead of pouring it neatly as his nanny had always managed, he had spilt most of it all over himself, the dresser and the floor. Deciding that this was as much washing as anyone needed, especially since the water had long become rather cold, Ereinion had splashed his face and braided his hair before dragging the damp chair back to the shelves where his clothes were kept.

Back at home, he had always thought that being small meant having a pony not a horse like his Adar, going to bed before you wanted to, and wearing tunics and leggings rather than formal gowns. Now he understood that being an elfling was all about pushing chairs around and balancing on tiptoes.

In his room – his old room – back at home, there had been a bed that was the exact right size for an elfling, and a table and chairs that meant that he could sit down and colour in comfortably both at once. His Naneth had once told him, that during the special year when he was growing inside her, his Adar and grandfather had kept disappearing into an old abandoned stable and coming back covered in sawdust and grinning ear to ear. After he had been born they had filled his room with all the things they had made for him, and even then, if he could not reach anything or if something had been just too big there had always been someone to help.

He could remember sitting on his Naneth’s lap and being shown how to pluck the strings on her harp, and his Adar looking on and clapping. Fingolfin had often taken him into the stables and let him feed apples to Rochallor, his great horse, and if he was especially good he had sometimes been allowed to sit in the saddle if he held on tightly to Rochallor’s mane. On one very special begetting day, his grandfather had even sat up there with him and let him hold the reins as they had ridden a little way through the forests.

Even when he really had been too little to do something, they had found a way. Once, when he had wanted to ride a horse so badly, even though he had not even been so very good at running around himself yet, his father had got down onto his hands and knees and crawled around the palace hallway neighing loudly whenever his son had kicked his feet against his ribs. Privately Ereinion had thought that Fingolfin might have made a better pony, for his hair was rather longer and more mane like, but there had been other people there. When there were other people there his grandfather had always pretended to be a proper King rather than someone’s grandfather.

But now his Adar was the High King, and he had been sent away to stay with someone who liked turnip. And despite his best efforts to ignore it, a little voice in Ereinion’s mind kept whispering that perhaps Adar had decided that it was easier to be High King without an elfling around.

~*~

Ereinion padded through the hallway a little nervously. Thatharien had told him to hurry downstairs and that breakfast was on the table, but although he knew that it would be getting cold he did not feel like being quick. It was difficult to feel welcome when you could not even remember which stairs to go down, or where the dining room was.

The house was cool this morning, and since someone had taken away his boots for cleaning whilst he had been sleeping, he could feel the wooden floorboards cold through his socks. The door that they had used yesterday to come in from the beach was open, letting in a cold salty draft, and a pretty young maiden was outside pegging clothes from a basket onto a long bit of string between two trees. It was not too windy out there, but the blanket of marram grass that covered the dunes was rippling as if it wanted to be the sea too, and before long Ereinion began to feel quite chill.

“Run along with you!” The maiden turned, and on seeing Ereinion standing in the doorway raised her voice. “You cannot play without a good breakfast inside you.”

The maiden had a funny accent, and her voice was gently chiding, but Ereinion decided that he liked her so smiled widely before scampering off to find his breakfast. Maybe later he would go exploring. There had been a tree behind the washing line that had looked just right for climbing.

~*~ “Good morning, Lord Cirdan.” Ereinion said dutifully, the rhythm to his words suggesting that it had been rehearsed in his mind far too many times, then in response to a raised eyebrow corrected himself. “Good morning, Cirdan.”

It had not taken long to find the dining room once he had retraced his steps, and before long he had been hovering in the doorway. The shipwright had been sitting at the breakfast table, shuffling through a sheaf of papers and occasionally taking a long draught from a thick mug filled with some hot liquid. If had taken Ereinion a while to pluck up the courage to disturb him, but once he had spoken the shipwright had looked up and his expression had not been unkind.

Cirdan grunted a response, but as the child scurried to his place and sat down with an unmistakable air of apprehension, he reluctantly added, “Did you sleep well?”

Ereinion sat down, folded his napkin into a perfect triangle and then a perfect square, and fiddled with his spoon.

“Yes thank you, Lord Cir...”

“Cirdan.” The silvery brows quirked slightly with either frustration or amusement, Ereinion could not tell.

“Yes thank you, Cirdan.” Ereinion squirmed in his seat, eyeing the bowls and dishes on the table greedily. There was a bowl of bread rolls, and a pat of creamy butter, and sitting in the middle of the table, smelling so good that he could barely sit still was a big dish of hot buttery scrambled egg. There was milk as well, but it was warm, so Ereinion carefully set it aside. Only babies liked their milk warm.

“Very good.” Cirdan glanced at the child and almost smiled as he saw the edge of a pink tongue just brush along the child’s lips.

It would have been polite to enquire as to the pleasantness of the shipwright’s dreams, and Ereinion truly meant too, but by the time the words had come out of his mouth they sounded more like, “Can I have some eggs?”

Cirdan frowned, outwardly annoyed, but secretly relieved that for this morning at least the child intended to eat.

“Please. After you. May I.” Ereinion gabbled, not taking his eyes from the dish. He knew that he was being rude, and probably would be scolded, but he was so very hungry. He was sure that he could eat eggs at least as fast as Cirdan too, so nobody could take his second helpings this time.

The shipwright grunted, but at long last did pick up the two large silver serving spoons and excruciatingly slowly dished up a bowl of eggs from himself before eventually turning to Ereinion.

“Here,” Ereinion stopped jiggling and nudging his bowl and thrust it across the table. Then, in case the shipwright had missed out on this important fact added solemnly, “I am very hungry, Cirdan.”

“Aye,” Cirdan dished out as large a portion as he thought the child would manage, and then at Ereinion’s disappointed look added an extra spoonful or two.

“Thank you!” Ereinion gifted Cirdan with a large smile and reached eagerly for the bowl, doing his best not to grab. Even the Falathrim could not manage to put bones in their eggs, and it had been so long since he had had something so hot and tasty to eat. His spoon was difficult to balance and a little large to fit into his mouth comfortably, but that did little to stop him shovelling down his breakfast as fast as he could manage. There had sometimes been eggs at home of course, but they had never tasted as delicious as this.

Rather bemused by his young guest’s sudden transformation from picky eater to starving waif, Cirdan buttered himself a bread roll and nudged a hand towards a large wooden bowl filled with warm freshly baked bread.

“If you are still hungry...”

“Oooh,” looking up at long last from his eggs, Ereinion eyed the bread and turned large eyes on Cirdan, “Can I have two?”

“Aye,” Cirdan agreed, equally solemnly.

But as Ereinion reached across the table to the plate of bread rolls his arm caught on his glass of milk, and before the young prince could even stop breathing it had toppled over, sending a deluge of warm milk over the tabletop. As Ereinion watched, his eyes growing wider and wider, milk poured over the edge of the table, dripping into a puddle in Cirdan’s lap.

“I...”

Barely daring to meet the shipwright’s eyes, Ereinion suddenly found that all the words that he might have had had dried up into a sour taste. He was beginning to shiver although he was not cold, and he thought his heart might have stopped beating.

Without a word, Cirdan got to his feet, mopped up the milk as best be could with his napkin, and left the room leaving the door to creak shut behind him.

~*~

Now that he thought about it, Ereinion realised that the shipwright’s house was full of echoes and hollow noises. He could hear the shipwright’s footsteps hurrying upstairs, and then after a few endless minutes of breathless quiet the rustle of Thatharien’s apron.

“Ereinion, what...”

The housekeeper had merely meant to clean up the spill before the shipwright could return, but on finding the cause of the trouble deathly pale and shuddering in his seat, Thatharien put down her cloth and hurried to lift the child into her arms.

“Shh,” Thatharien was rocking him up and down in her arms, just as Naneth had done when he had been small and woken up from a nightmare, but it did not make Ereinion feel better as it had done then. “Was Cirdan cross with you?”

Ereinion hiccuped, unsure of what to say. He had not been scolded or punished, but people did not just walk off if they were not angry with you. When his Adar was very angry and frustrated, he would storm off and sit on one of the windy towers and just think. He had said that it was to let him stop being angry before he shouted at someone.

Taking this as an affirmative, Thatharien sent a gaze of steel in the direction of the shipwright’s chamber. “It was but an accident, Ereinion. He had no right...”

As the housekeeper’s chest heaved with a self-righteous huff, Ereinion burst into tears. Now he had told a lie that he had not even meant to tell, and everything was going wrong faster than he could make things better.

~*~

Coming downstairs, once again in dry clothing, Cirdan heard the elfling’s wails and groaned. It was not as if he had even shown any of his displeasure or annoyance to the child, something that had taken quite considerable effort. And if merely the sight of spilt milk was enough to cause tears, the chance of incident free days in the far or near future seemed small to say the least.

Grimacing, the shipwright tentatively peered into his dining room, and providently took a few steps back as Thatharien shot him a look of sheer fury. The young prince was blubbering something indecipherable, and it seemed evident that once again all would end in upset.

“Ereinion,” Seeing no other option other than enduring the inevitable scolding now, in full view of the child, Cirdan swiftly moved to Thatharien’s side and awkwardly let the palm of his hand rest against Ereinion’s back. On contact, the child had managed to turn into a very small elf indeed, so small in fact that the shipwright could not help but wonder if it were possible to curl up so tightly without creasing. “I am not angry, child.”

Ereinion looked up from a moment, blinking his damp lashes rapidly before breaking into a fresh stream of tears. Tutting loudly, Thatharien stroked the prince’s hair.

“He is upset.”

Her tone left no doubt in Cirdan’s mind that this was to be attributed to him.

“He has no cause to be,” Cirdan said solidly, then turned back to the boy. “Come, let us finish our breakfast.”

Ereinion did not feel too sure about this, but it had sounded more like an order than a request, so he unhooked his arms from around Thatharien’s neck and grappled for a handhold on the shipwright’s shoulder instead.

A little taken aback at suddenly finding himself with an armful of tearful elfling, Cirdan gave Thatharien an uncertain smile and made his way back to the breakfast table. He had never soothed a child before, and now that the housekeeper had left with a last warning glare, he was entirely alone.

“There is no reason to cry,” to Cirdan’s frustration his words sounded more pleading than he would have liked, and when he tried to mimic the housekeeper by stroking the child’s hair his work-roughened fingers became entangled in the black strands. “No harm was done.”

The prince made a brave effort at reducing his tears into hiccups. Although the shipwright obviously meant to be nice, he was pulling too hard at his hair and making knots and it hurt. “I did not mean to.”

“I know you did not.” Cirdan’s brow furrowed at the child’s woebegone voice. “It was an accident.”

Ereinion nodded earnestly then asked in a worried little voice, “Are you not cross with me?”

“No...” Cirdan paused, inwardly cursing his complete lack of ability in translating his words into something comprehensible for a small and frightened child. “No matter what happens, if you did not mean to do it, and it can been cleaned or mended, then I will have no cause to be angry with you.”

~*~

Once he had finished his breakfast, Ereinion escaped into the gardens to explore. He had been quick enough to escape Thatharien's reminder to wear his cloak, and although Círdan had nearly tripped over him when he had been sitting on the floor pulling on his boots, the Shipwright was the last person that Ereinion would have expected to come out with reminders about cloaks or hoods or high branches on forbidden trees.

The sun was making a feeble attempt at breaking through the clouds by now, and small scraps of white and grey sails had appeared on the green of the bay. For a while Ereinion dashed back and forwards under the damp sheets, arms spread wide and hair streaming out behind him in the wind. He had never been sailing, but he could imagine that this must be what it would be like. The biggest white sheet was his mainsail and the tall spindly tree to which one end of the washing line was knotted was the mast. The ground beneath the line was sandy and dotted with grit and small pebbles - the grass having been worn away to a few coarse tufts - and this became the deck amidst the ripping green waves.

"Ereinion!" Círdan called sharply, striding through the long grass to where an elfling-sized silhouette was charging through a sheet, shouting something about storms and sea monsters. "What in Oss's name are you doing?"

The sheet billowed out beyond the child for a second as Ereinion stopped dead, then as the gust of wind died, fell backwards engulfing the small figure in clinging wet fabric.

"I was sailing," Ereinion mumbled through a mouthful of linen, this struggles to free himself doing little to dissuade the sheet from tangling itself around him. "I am sorry, Lor... Círdan."

Although he knew that he could not be seen beneath the sheet, he could feel his cheeks burning. Elves with very nearly eleven years of wisdom behind them were far too old to be caught playing such silly games. And now he could not even disentangle himself from the sheet properly, as if he really was but three years old.

"Aye, Círdan." Círdan confirmed, watching the elfling struggle for a few minutes until it was apparent even to him that Ereinion's efforts had switched from being a game to wild, frustrated swipes bordering on a tantrum. "Stay still."

Ereinion obediently froze, but there was something about the shuddering quality of his breaths that made Círdan hurry to free him.

"There is no cause for apology," Círdan said gruffly as first a wild head of hair and then an assortment of hopelessly tangled limbs emerged from the bundle.

He has little idea why the child felt the need to apologise for things that were neither his fault nor worthy of more than a moments thought, but it made him uneasy.

Even more worrying was the way that the child was now looking at him. Having been slapped by a torn sail in a storm at sea before now, he was well aware that being trapped and struggling to breathe was not a pleasant experience, but his young guest looked close to tears. He had never felt comfortable in situations such as this, and made a point of avoiding them. In any case he seldom knew what to say. The young soldiers of his realm responded far better to a quiet word from their captains when slumped pale and nauseous after their first battle than any encouragement from him.

Ereinion shifted unhappily and clutched at the hem of his tunic with both hands, watching his guardian dolefully.

Unsure of the best course of action, Círdan stared transfixed at the child. The boy wanted some sort of comfort but he did not know how to offer it.

Realising at last that the Shipwright was even more uncertain about what should be done than he was, Ereinion tentatively extended a damp hand and grateful for any guidance, Círdan took it.

The Shipwright's hand was warm and rough around Ereinion's own, like shirt leather made tough from drying at the fireside. It was strangely calming, having someone wanting you to feel better, even if they were very bad at doing it.

"I was sailing." Ereinion explained again, turning over the Shipwright's hand and examining his fingernails. They were much bigger than his own. Círdan's hair did not seem to know that it was not supposed to grow on his hands either, and there were fine silver hairs growing across his tanned skin.

"Sailing?" Círdan boomed, staring first at the sheets and then back at Ereinion. "Have you never been in a boat, child?"

Rather insulted by the scorn in the shipwright's voice, Ereinion glared back at him and replied witheringly. "Of course I have not. I would not have had to pretend if I had."

Círdan's eyebrows had shot up at the answer, and he looked pityingly at the child for a moment. "Would you like to go sailing?"

It seemed a small thing to offer after such a life of deprivation, but Ereinion clearly thought that this was a gift worthy of the High King himself. Beaming broadly and nodding vigorously he hopped up and down, pointing out to sea with his free hand. "Now?"

Círdan coughed, rather overcome by the child's response. Had he known how easy it was to turn a miserable little figure into a picture of happy childhood, he would not have bothered worrying about the boy.

"Tomorrow. Today you shall see Andir and a healer friend of mine. You will begin lessons before long and the healers shall see that you are in good health."

Recognising the Shipwright's words as a promise, Ereinion nodded. He could hardly wait to commandeer a ship himself, but he recognised that like his father, Círdan would not change his mind if pestered or pushed. Although it would have been nice to go sailing today. He did not feel too keen about the prospect of visiting the healers.

It was not that he was scared of needles or stinging lotions or the like – but he had never been there before without either his Naneth or his Adar being there. Even when he had slipped from a wall, gaining a number of cuts and bruises, his Adar had found time to be excused from his councils to come and sit with him. Without someone being there the healers might get too enthusiastic and decide to use all their instruments and potions.

Whenever Adar came home from battle and Naneth was looking worried, he would always laugh deeply and say that healers had far too much enthusiasm and that was why he carried his weapons into the infirmary with him. Ereinion would always join in with his father's laughter, but his Naneth would struggle to even smile. He had never understood why. Naneth loved smiling normally.

---

High in the eaves of Círdan's house, another pair of eyes was watching the elfling. There was a small arched window on the westerly face of the housekeeper's chambers, and this was where Thatharien stood now, gazing pensively out into the gardens.

It was a very peaceful room, with a scrubbed wooden floor, simple furniture and cushions and coverlets of plain undyed linen. These were embroidered intricately with the beautiful whorls and curves of the traditional needlework of the Falathrim – a pastime that filled any empty hours in her day. But for these items the room was devoid of any hint of personality or emotion. There were no pictures on the walls or trinkets on the dresser - or even a hint of who may live there except a loom for weaving and a great basket filled with coloured yarns and silks.

There was a broad wooden chest beneath the window, normally covered with a warm woollen rug woven in shades of whites and blues and used as a window seat, but now bare with the rug and cushions placed neatly on the rocking chair in the corner. At last taking her eyes away from the child's anxious face, Thatharien knelt down before the chest and made to lift the heavy lid.

It was not locked but the hinges were stiff from rust and years of disuse and there was a mournful creak as it opened. The thick wood had protected the contents over the years, and apart from a thin layer of dust and a slight yellowing of some of the fabrics, all was exactly as she had arranged more than a hundred years before. Barely breathing she carefully lifted out a shirt – still carrying the scent and the memory of the elf that had once been its owner – and folded aside a blanket woven in rich sunset shades of red and gold and pink. Then there was only a cracked leather satchel that rustled as sheets of old parchment rubbed together when she touched it, some bundles wrapped in white cloth, and then finally the parcels that she was looking for.

There was a small boat, made out of ash wood and equipped with a fragile grey sail and string ropes. A worn leather ball and a scuffed wooden hoop. The bucket and spade and small net still had grains of sand in them, and the beautiful pink shell that had once been carried home so proudly inside them was bundled up elsewhere in the chest. When she touched a bulging leather pouch the marbles inside chinked together so familiarly.

She had meant to take them out for a while, and allow another small boy to play with them, but in the end she could not do so. Finally she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with grey flowers, and slowly placed everything back in the chest – leaving everything as it had been, and as it would remain.

Ereinion had pitifully few toys with him, but she could not bear to part with these. It did not matter if this kindness could make the child's dismal life more tolerable. As yet even the memory of another set of small fingers gripping her own was too painful to bear.

She carefully rearranged the blanket and cushions over the smooth wood, glanced once more out of the window at Ereinion who was now going inside still grasping the Shipwright's hand, and moved softly to the door. There was bread to bake and washing to do, and little time to waste grieving things that could not be changed.

---

Círdan strode over to the small window in the hallway and peered out at the sky. There were no clouds visible as yet, but there was something in the wind that hinted of rain. It had been a month of foul weather, and all the sailors were becoming wearing of battling through storms and crashing waves, and returning home soaked through and breathless from the wind. Looking grim, Círdan pulled aside some of the cloaks on the hooks until he found the thick grey cloak that he was looking for. It was only as he fastened the garment with a plain circular silver brooch that he realised that his young guest might need some protection against the weather too.

Ereinion's cloak was hanging half-hidden beneath the untidy sprawl of woollens and waterproofs, the embroidered hem not even reaching a third of the way down a full sized garment, and several feet below even that was the elfling himself.

The young prince was sitting on the floor, rocking backwards with one leg stretched out before him, both hands tugging on a boot that appeared to be as stubborn as its owner. His face was quite serious in his efforts, and as he watched Círdan realised that the boy was too small to reach his own cloak, even on tiptoes and with the aid of a chair.

His gaze moved back and forth a few times between the elfling and the cloaks, then he snatched the garment from the hook and tossed it towards his guest. It had felt very thin to his hands, and whilst it would fulfil the duty of keeping its wearer warm whilst standing on battlements to watch a display or some other official purpose, it would offer little protection against the biting winds and hail and sleet that were characteristic of winters in the Havens. Indeed if Ereinion were to spend as much time out of the house enjoying the healthy sea air as he intended him too, the child was likely remember the next few months as being little more than cold.

Ignoring the reproachful look that Ereinion threw him as he tore off the cloak that had landed across his face, Círdan ran his hands lightly over the cool stone of the walls, scowling as he thought. He did not suppose, on consideration, that the child had had that much time to play outside at all. There were dangers in Hithlum that even the great stone walls of the city could not completely hinder. Fingon would have been reckless to allow his son to run and play alone.

The High King was reckless - or brave to the point of foolishness - but Círdan suspected that this did not extend as far as his son. Everything the prince wore from his exquisitely embroidered tunic to his thin socks spoke of a life spent indoors or in the shelter of walls and courtyards. It had not even occurred to the child to dress appropriately before heading outside this morning.

"I am ready," Ereinion said loudly, rising to his feet at last and making his way towards the door as quickly as possible.

Círdan looked at the elfling, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Ereinion was being careful to avoid looking back, and when Círdan turned to see what was worthy of such an effort, he found that the cloak was now screwed up into a ball and shoved among the boots standing in the rack.

"I am too hot." Making a show of flapping his arms and wiping his brow Ereinion slouched crossly back to the boot racks. He had not expected the Shipwright to notice such a tiny detail of his appearance, but the ancient elf was staring at his cloak so sternly that Ereinion was sure that he would be cross.

Unused to such tactics, Círdan stared uncomprehendingly at him for a moment, then cleared his throat and spoke with an indisguisable air of bewilderment.

"There will be rain."

The prince glared suspiciously at the window.

"I see no clouds!" Ereinion's voice sounded rather rude and imperious even to his own ears, so in an attempt to amend himself he added, "Círdan."

"Nevertheless, there will be rain." Círdan said tersely, chewing at the left side of his lip.

Ereinion scowled and kicked at his cloak, folding his arms tightly across his chest, and spoke haughtily, "I do not wish to wear it."

Círdan let his breath out in a snort. If the child had no intention of wearing the garment then he had no idea why he was having the conversation in the first place.

"Very well. Do not wear it." Círdan snapped, opening the door and shoving Ereinion out ahead of him. "It shall be your own discomfort."

He would not bother fetching the child a cloak in future. Or ensuring that the ridiculously small boots were dry. The ungrateful stripling could spend the next few months in shivering soggy-toed misery and he would only have himself to blame.

Stumbling away from the shipwright, Ereinion allowed himself a small smirk of victory. Naneth and Adar had sent him away and it was only fair that he should train his keeper as he saw fit.

---

The Houses of Healing were a number of sturdy buildings set around a courtyard in the middle of the city, not far from the harbour. They were built in the same yellow stone as the rest of the city, but here and there a block of a more pinkish shade was set amongst the stonework. There were many panelled windows with weathered wooden shutters, a number of turrets and a bell tower, and beyond a thick wall promise of a garden with trees and flowers. Círdan led Ereinion to a set of heavy wooden doors and stopped suddenly, shaking his fingers free from the child’s hot little hand.

“I shall return.” Círdan inclined his head towards the doorway and looked meaningfully at Ereinion. “They are expecting you.”

Ereinion grabbed hold of a handful of the Shipwright’s leggings and shot him a meaningful look of his own. The doors looked friendly enough, made of a golden coloured wood with ornate iron supports holding every beam in place, but Círdan could not mean him to go in there alone.

“I must go to the shipyards.” Círdan attempted to prise small fingers from the grey cloth. It reminded him rather uncomfortably of pulling limpets from the rocks. The boy had started to shiver, and telling himself that it was from cold, he gave Ereinion a little shove towards the door. “I shall return.”

“On my own?” Ereinion queried in a hollow voice, dark eyes huge in his pale face. He wanted to grab hold of Círdan’s hand again but something told him that this would only serve to annoy the Shipwright.

“I shall return.” Círdan repeated firmly, pushing open the heavy doors with one arm, allowing the prince to pass through underneath. Anybody would think that the child thought he was being needlessly cruel and heartless.

With a last desperate look backwards, Ereinion shuffled miserably through the doorway, trying not to listen as the door swung to with a heavy thunk. He was trapped here now, the great doors being far too heavy for him to move on his own. With nowhere else to go, he tiptoed through the echoing marble dome of the entrance chamber and pushed feebly at the doors at the far end, wishing that they too would be too heavy for him to manage.

They were not. Someone had oiled them recently and they swung open easily and without a squeak, leading into a wide hallway with spiral stairs at the far end and many rooms leading from it.

Many of the doorways stood open and Ereinion could see soldiers gathering leather packs in one room, and maidens washing sheets and blankets in another. One dark-haired soldier had gone into the laundry room by mistake, but when a pretty maiden came to tell him of his mistake he took hold of her and kissed her as Adar had kissed Naneth. Intrigued, Ereinion stopped in the middle of the hallway and did not take his eyes from them until the soldier looked down and saw him. Flushing deeply, Ereinion hurried onwards, missing the wink that was sent his way. He knew that he should not have stared so - that had been rude. He did not suppose that Círdan would understand about being interested in people kissing. The Shipwright did not seem to be a kissing sort of person. He had even grown that scratchy beard to scare people away.

It was quiet in the hallway, but a busy sort of quiet with clinks and rustles in the background. A tall elf in white healers’ robes came swiftly out of a door on the left and hurried out of sight with a smooth urgency. There was a low moan audible from the inside the room, and stepping to one side, Ereinion had a quick glimpse of a bandaged elf lying on a high table before the crack in the door became too narrow for him to see through. There had been three anxious looking young soldiers standing alongside their comrade, covered in a bright red wetness that he did not want to think about.

“Suiliad,” there was a soft rustle behind him and Ereinion turned around to find a young elf-maiden standing behind him. She was carrying a tray with scissors and knives and other sharp shiny things, and although Ereinion was sure that Círdan had spoken the truth when he had said that he would never let anyone hurt him, he was not quite as sure as he had been just a minute ago. “Are you lost, little one?”

Ereinion stared at her a moment, then shook his head. It felt so funny, but it was almost as if she did not know who he was.

“Have you lost your Naneth?”

Ereinion frowned a little. He did not think he had lost anybody. It was mid-morning now and his Naneth would be taking his Adar a drink and they would sit and talk a little while before both returned to their duties. Sometimes, if he had finished his lessons early, he would join them and Naneth would bring some of the special spicy biscuits that she knew he liked best.

“No,” Ereinion said quietly, shaking his head, “Nana and Adar are at home.”

“Are you here all alone?” the young maiden looked worried now, and was peering around as if hoping that someone more superior would materialise from the woodwork. “Wait here.”

She disappeared for a moment, leaving Ereinion even more alone than before, and returned a moment later without the tray. There was a crease in the white linen of her pinafore and the cuffs of her blouse were embroidered with flowers. Her hair was braided back, but here and there a golden curl had escaped.

“Little one!”

Ereinion looked up sharply and noticed that she was holding out her hand to him. He reached up awkwardly to join hands with her and allowed himself to be led along the corridor. “Círdan said that he would come back for me.”

“Lord Círdan will come for you?” The maiden sounded both surprised and intrigued now. “You are staying with him?”

Ereinion nodded, looking around worriedly as they passed through doors and crossed hallways. He was not sure if he could remember the way back any more. If Círdan could not find him when he returned, Ereinion was not too sure that the Shipwright would bother to search. Just yesterday he had wanted to leave him with a strange family.

“Now, why do you not sit here.” The maiden led him into a small square room with wide wooden benches running around the walls.

There were carvings in the backs of the benches, curls and whorls curving in fine grooves through the wood. His fingers were just small enough to fit in the biggest grooves so he knelt down on the bench and trailed his fingers along them. They spelt out words, some of the curves, but he did not understand them.

Ereinion did not see the other elf until he bumped into him, in the middle of a flowing word of no meaning.

“Be careful, little one.” A warm hand came down onto his shoulder, holding him as securely as his grandfather had once done. “Look first, and you will be wiser.”

The elf’s voice was kind, and Ereinion turned towards him with a smile, but instead of the fair face that he had been expecting this elf’s expression was twisted by a ragged purple scar running from his chin to his hairline.

“I am sorry.” Ereinion gasped, shuffling away from him whilst stealing another horrified glance. “I am sorry.”

They did not speak again.

---

The shipyards were busy and noisy even at this time of the morning. Elves in rough grey tunics passed between piles of uncut wood and the skeletal frames of half-built ships, carrying satchels filled with nails or buckets of paint. Timber was sawn, planed and sanded into shape and yards of pale sailcloth were cut and trimmed. Amidst the knocking of hammers and the rasping of saws there were the sound of hundreds of elven voices talking, laughing or raised in song. Nearly every elf in the Havens was involved with the shipyards in some way or means, and together with the harbour they were the centre of working life in the city.

But Cirdan did not find the hustle and bustle of the scene a distraction – for him the shipyards held a sense of peacefulness brought about by familiarity. The long trestle table at which he worked was the same as it had been the day before, and that too was strangely comforting. The Shipwright took his customary seat at the head of the table, relieved that he could forget about the new weight on his shoulders for the hour.

But the Lord of the Havens could not settle today.

There was a nagging guilt in the back of his mind that would not be quietened. Perhaps he should not have sent the child in alone when there had been such obvious fear in his eyes. It would have taken but a moment to accompany him in. And although it would set a dangerous precedent for future excursions, in retrospect his actions had seemed simply unkind.

Giving into his conscience at long last, Círdan set down his tools without putting them to use and attempted to leave the shipyards as unobtrusively as possible. It was not in his heart to wish his kindness noticed.

---

“Mae Govannen,” a tall, good-looking elf strode into the little room and spoke briefly to the elf with the long scar before crouching down on the floor next to Ereinion, “But I do not think that I know your name, little one.”

Ereinion surveyed him seriously for a moment, pursing his lips together as he thought. The healer looked important, and although he was dressed in a loose pale tunic and leggings, the cuffs of his shirt and the ties in his hair were very finely embroidered.

“I do not know your name either,” Ereinion glanced sideways at the healer and frowned when he smiled.

“My name is Huiluin. I am a healer here.” The elf held out a hand to Ereinion and after a moment’s thought Ereinion took it. It made sense that Círdan’s friend would be an important elf. “Would you like to come with me?”

Ereinion slipped off the seat, holding the strange elf’s hand tightly. If felt warm and soft and safe, so he clutched his other hand around Huiluin’s thumb too.

They walked slowly through a small passageway into a light and airy room with a table and a set of shelves polished a warm honey colour. One of the doors of the cupboards had been left open revealing trays of gleaming needles and knives.

“Ereinion. I am Ereinion.” Ereinion said hurriedly. He did not want any mistakes being made, especially if there were going to be needles involved. “Círdan said that you would see that I was healthy.”

“Oh?” Huiluin’s pale brows rose for a moment, then he smiled again, placidly enough.

“I do not like needles.” Ereinion clarified, clenching his fists a little more tightly around Huiluin’s hand.

Not long after his seventh begetting day, his Adar had left his sword lying in the hallway. He had been so proud at being able to lift it that he had forgotten how very heavy it was, and when it had fallen he had learnt again how very sharp it was.

“Ah,” Huiluin bent down and before Ereinion could step back or squirm, lifted him up onto a high stone table. “I see no reason for you to meet any today.”

But his friendly tone was wasted on Ereinion who had stiffened on touch and was now scowling ferociously. If there was one thing that the young prince disliked more than being a very small person in a very big place, it was being lifted about by people without them even waiting to see if he was going to hold onto them or shrink back. Even Círdan seemed to hesitate on making hold, giving him time to get used to the idea of being picked up by someone who might drop him. Huiluin seemed to think he had no more feeling than the bundle of blankets that he had just moved from a chair.

“This will not take long,” Huiluin said reassuringly, running his fingers through the elfling’s silky hair, noting a few bruises that were not healing as they ought.

“What are you doing?” Ereinion asked crossly, reaching out a hand to push the older elf away.

“I am checking for lice.” Huiluin said succinctly, ignoring the small fingers until such time as he caught the plaintive hand and started examining the child’s fingernails. “I shall cut your fingernails for you.”

It was obvious that nobody had seen to the child’s needs for quite some time, and in any case it seemed a wise precaution given the child’s temperament. He could not imagine the Lord of the Havens sparing a moment to trim a child’s hair or cut small toenails. Someone would have to have a word with Thatharien if the child was to regain his good health.

“No.” Ereinion said loudly, not daring to jerk his arm away with Huilinn hovering with the scissors so close by. He knew that his fingernails did need a cut, but he did not want this elf to do it – especially if he thought that he might have lice.

“It will not hurt you.” Huiluin sounded very patient and he reached for the child’s other hand with great gentleness considering that he was a very large elf. No elfling found such examinations pleasant and he always did his best to ensure that they proceeded quickly.

“They are mine.” Ereinion said, watching the last pale crescent of fingernail being trimmed from his little finger. “You are spoiling them.”

Huiluin did not reply, merely patting the child’s bony knees and taking advantage of the child’s glare to examine his eyes without the complications of blinking.

“How do you feel, Ereinion?” A large hand turned the child’s head this way and that as the healer observed ears and nose. “Do you have aches? Pains?”

“No.”

Both knew it was a lie, they could tell from each other’s eyes, but the moment passed before Ereinion could amend himself.

“Now, I must check your mouth.” Huiluin tapped one finger lightly on the boy’s chin. “Open wide.”

For a brief moment, Ereinion entertained thoughts of refusing, but imagined the Shipwright’s reaction if he heard of such behaviour and obediently bared his teeth at the healer.

“Good,” Huiluin washed his hands in a bitter tasting soap then carefully bent down to gaze inside the elfling’s mouth. All teeth were sound and present, although all were still the milk teeth of babyhood, and his tongue was pink and healthy. There were several pale ulcers on the inside of his cheeks however, and the child shied away when he touched them. He looked seriously at the elfling, willing him to co-operate. “These must be hurting you.”

Ereinion stared at him, eyes beading with tears and finally said very quietly, “Naneth would have stopped them.”

Huiluin nodded and prodded again, this time a little harder and suddenly Ereinion did not want any strange fingers in his mouth any more. Things like this had never happened when he had gone to the healers with his Naneth. He tried to pull back but Huiluin merely held a hand against the back of his head, trapping him, whilst murmuring soothingly about checking his gums.

“I know little one, I know.” Huiluin squinted into the darkness as he ran his fingers over a bleeding patch. “It will not be long now.”

Doing his best not to whimper, Ereinion squirmed in his place. His leggings had got all bunched up and knotted underneath him and he felt all hot as if he was about to cry and his mouth was dry. All he could see was the smooth golden braids that kept the healer’s hair from his face and the thoughtful furrows in the older elf’s brow. Something might be really wrong with him and he did not want to be ill without having his Naneth or Adar with him.

Even the thought of being sick in a strange house made him feel like curling up somewhere dark, and if he made a mess on the bedcovers then Círdan was sure to be furious.

Slowly becoming aware that he was crying, Ereinion attempted once again to pull free of the healer’s grasp, but finding this impossible settled for the last option available to him and sank his teeth into Huiluin’s finger.

The healer leapt backwards hissing a word that Ereinion providently assumed came from the tongue of the Falathrim. Whilst the child’s teeth had not punctured the skin, the marks they had left were white in the reddening flesh and the pain was quite enough to convince Huiluin that the task should be concluded later – preferably with the child’s guardian present.

Now in very real trouble, Ereinion put his head back and howled, half in real misery and half in the hope that anybody coming into the room would take his side without bothering to find out what had happened. He was considerably louder than Huiluin, and he was crying.

“Do you require assistance?” A knock having gone unheard and unanswered, someone pushed open the door and both elves turned to find a young elf leaning against the doorpost. He was yet young – probably still in his apprenticeship years and yet to come of age – and his wispy hair had a reddish tinge. He was a rather pale and thin elf, and his clothing was far simpler than Huiluin’s. The edge of his grey tunic was fraying and he was fiddling with a loose thread as he watched them.

“Perhaps you could finish the examination.” Huiluin said tersely and added with dark significance, “He is Círdan’s ward.”

“Ah,” unfazed by this information the young elf strolled over to the young prince and looked down upon him with interest. “So you must be Ereinion?”

Disconcerted that this strange elf seemed closer to grinning than being appalled at his distress, Ereinion reduced his bawling to sniffles and nodded.

He watched quietly as Huiluin discussed something with the newcomer – something about his gums – and then as the young elf approached once more held out his arms to be picked up. He did not want to be sent to find anywhere in these strange halls alone.

“Up you get.” This elf did know how to pick someone up, and held him nice and tight when he snuggled closer as they passed Huiluin. It was only as they walked slowly up a flight of stairs that the young healer looked down at him, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile. “So, how old are you now, Ereinion?”

“Nearly eleven.” Ereinion said defensively. He knew that he should not have behaved as he had but there was no need for this elf to scold him for it. His Adar called elves like him waifs and refused to allow them to serve under him saying that they were too young to face death.

But to his surprise there was no reprimand coming. The elf’s grey eyes sparkled brightly and he laughed loudly and freely as they hurried along a narrow corridor to one of the turret rooms.

Círdan would not have taken to this turn of events kindly.

Note: This is fanfiction and I own nothing.

---

Alone in the Ranlhach’s cupboard of a room, Ereinion wriggled out of his tunic and leggings, then sat down on the floor to peel off his socks and unbutton his shirt. If he had been at home he would have had to fold his garments up neatly, but there was no nanny to nag him here. Feeling deliciously wicked, Ereinion left his clothes crumpled on the floor and slipped his bare feet back inside his boots.

“You are ready?”

Ranlhach came quietly in and picked up and folded each garment in turn, all the while talking softly about rock pools and islands and the new foal in the stables. Ereinion watched him mutely, his cheeks rapidly gaining colour. While he did not like folding his clothes, he did not like to think that people thought that he was too young to pick up his own things.

He was nearly eleven after all.

It the young healer was shocked at seeing just how thin Ereinion was without the bulk of the layers of clothing, he made no comment, but realising that such a small body would quickly become cold he took Ereinion’s hand and led him to a cupboard near the door.

“There are blankets, if you would like one?” Ranlhach knelt down and rummaged through a pile of small blankets made of a soft wool. “Do you want to choose?”

Ereinion nodded, pressing his body against the healer’s side for warmth. The little round turret room was rather drafty and whenever he was scared he always got shivery.

“There is this one?” Ranlhach held up a light blue blanket embroidered with pictures of shells and starfish, and then a green one with pictures of ships. With still no response from the elfling he patted a particularly pink blanket decorated with flowers and grinned at the prince. “I do not think you would like that one.”

Ereinion shook his head vigorously, a tiny grin tweaking the corners of his mouth. “That is for a girl!”

Laughing, Ranlhach drew out another blanket, this one made of cream wool and embroidered with colourful fish. “What about this one?”

This time the elfling did not smile, but he did reach out a hand to touch a fish with stripes of orange, yellow and white. Seemingly this met his approval for he tugged at the blanket, bundling it up against his chest and watching Ranlhach warily.

“Come,” smiling reassuringly, the young healer eased the screwed up ball of cloth back into a shape that could be wrapped around the elfling. “I shall be as quick as I can.”

This examination table was smaller than the other one, and was made of well-scrubbed wood. Ranlhach sat down beside Ereinion and began the slow task of checking his bony arms and legs for sign of disease or injury.

“You must have been riding for quite a time, Ereinion.” Ranlhach observed, wondering how anyone could have missed noticing the sores and bruises that must have been causing him quite considerable discomfort. “Did you not stop often?”

There was a mobile hanging above the table, and its tiny brightly coloured wooden ships were sailing round and round in the breeze from the window. It was a grey day by now and the brass lantern that hung by the door had been lit. Shadow ships were tracing their way across the walls – some big, some small, others stretched so that they were barely recognisable.

“Ereinion?”

“No.” Ereinion said in a whisper.

There had not been anyone there to care for the child either, he suspected. It was a bleak and dangerous land beyond the city walls and a grown elf could not be bundled or carried as an elfling could be.

“So you lived as a warrior.” Ranlhach kept his voice carefully calm to avoid the anger and frustration inside him from surfacing. There was little time for childhood in this world, and even within the safety of the great walls around Círdan’s land there were those with little innocence left. “I expect you often rode in the cold and wet?”

Ereinion’s forehead furrowed, “I did not complain.”

The child’s voice was haughty and his eyes were dark with displeasure. Seeking to soothe rather than upset, Ranlhach smiled blandly at the prince. “Your Adar must be very proud of you.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Ereinion’s face before his expression crumpled as he struggled with tears. Evidently his Adar was not a good topic to bring up at the present time.

Unwanted and dreadful, a memory surfaced from the dark places of Ranlhach’s mind. A tall elf, fear open on his face, tearing off his armour and thrusting them at a boy. There had been smoke and drums, and even the trees had been afraid. He could remember climbing, bark and lichen stabbing painfully under his clawing fingernails, and a sudden breathless hollowness in his heart.

It was best not to think of some things.

“Those are warrior’s boots.” Ranlhach grinned as he nodded towards Ereinion’s feet. They had been a gift, he suspected, for the bindings were wound around silver stars – a mark of Fingon’s force. “They will carry you far.”

“Too far.” Ereinion said softly.

He had wanted them so badly at the time, thinking they would lead to adventure and excitement. His grandfather had given them to him on his tenth begetting day, with the promise that now he was old enough and could shoot a bow, he should accompany him on a hunting trip once the looming battle was over. He had been proud and excited to stand beside his mother wearing those boots, watching his father and grandfather ride out under banners of blue and silver, but he had never gone on that hunting trip.

“Will you take them off for me?” Ranlhach asked cautiously, watching Ereinion’s face intently. “I should like to make sure you have no blisters.”

Ereinion gave him a grey and pleading look and clutched at himself with both hands.

“This one first.” The prince reluctantly tugged off his right boot and thrust a cold and damp foot into Ranlhach’s lap. “Then the other.”

---

Sitting awkwardly on the hard benches of the waiting room, Círdan could not imagine any situation in which he had ever felt more out of place. He had expected to be presented with a grateful elfling at the very least - perhaps needing help to find a healer or requesting to have his buttons unfastened - but Ereinion seemed to be managing quite well on his own.

To make matters worse the ringing silence that had filled the waiting areas when he had arrived had now been replaced with chattering voices, wails of infants, and screeches from the tiniest elves he had ever seen. Female elves clad in pretty dresses swarmed around him – taking knitting or patchwork out from small baskets, chasing after wobbling toddlers that were insistent on exploring the wards, and gossiping about the news of the city. Faced with the all too familiar task of accompanying their youngest to their regular checks, the young mothers were all too glad to have a new topic of conversation sitting in their midst.

And Círdan had to admit that a childless, anti-social, bachelor elf-lord filled that requirement rather well. Even Huiluin, the most senior of the healers and a regular presence at his councils, was muttering something to another elf and looking at him darkly.

“Ooosh!”

There was a small squeal, and feeling something light and soft bounce off his boots, Círdan looked down to find a tiny elf sitting on the floor squinting up at him. He – assuming that it was a he, given his blue tunic – was clutching fat little hands around a toy boat and alternating mauling on one end with sending the small craft sailing against the Shipwright’s sea boots.

Failing to disguise his shudder, Círdan shrunk back towards the wall, wishing the elfling anywhere but here. His mother, surely one of the pretty elves gathered in a corner knitting and laughing, seemed to be in no hurry to fetch him.

“Ooosh!” speaking more insistently now, the elfling placed a damp and jam-smeared hand on each of Círdan’s knees and pulled himself to his feet.

“Ooosh!” Happily unaware of the Shipwright’s importance or his grim expression of displeasure, the elfling dropped the boat into Círdan’s lap and attempted to scramble upwards, his bare feet slipping and sliding on the polished leather.

For once completely out of his depth, Círdan froze. He could irritably snatch the slimy ship from his tunic and send it clattering along the bench, but there was nothing he could do about a tiny creature clawing its way into his arms. A rather smelly tiny creature with a particularly soggy tunic...

“Círdan!” Ranlhach’s cheerful voice caused Círdan to look up in pleading relief and the young healer ambled across the room to the Shipwright’s side. “I have been seeing to Ereinion!”

“Get this...” the ancient elf’s bony shoulders jerked convulsively towards the elfling. To Ranlhach’s surprise Círdan’s face was quite pale and strained, and he did not waste time in rescuing him from the child.

“I was hoping that you would be here.” The young healer bounced the child in his arms a few times before handing him to his mother. “Ereinion persists that you will not come and that he does not want you, but I would rather have you with me.”

There was a moment of silence in the room before Círdan arose, the other elves finding this conversation much more of interest than their own.

Misinterpreting this, Ranlhach flushed deeply and stammered out apologetically, “My lord, if you would accompany me.”

“I care not for titles, Ranlhach, you know that!” speaking very quietly the pair walked from the room side by side, “But you must see that I will be of little aid to you.”

The Shipwright gave the younger elf a sharp look, and knew that he too was questioning the wisdom of Fingon’s decision to send his son here.

“I know nothing of children, and I have suggested that he may be happier elsewhere.” Círdan’s frown grew deeper as he thought back to the previous day. “But he knows nothing of our people but that his father has said that I will care for him, and he became upset. It is all he has left now, my name and his father’s word.”

“Then we must try.” Ranlhach gave his friend as cheerful a smile as he could muster in a situation such as this. “I must examine his chest and then you may take him home, but he is finding this distressing. I was hoping that if you held him...”

Círdan looked stricken.

“Or if you sat and I placed him in your lap,” Ranlhach suggested. “Or if you were only standing there, I think that might calm him.”

---

Ereinion was still sitting exactly where Ranlhach had left him when they came in, tears streaking down his face to dampen the edge of his blanket. He looked up at the sound of the door, and to Círdan’s great relief, gave him a woebegone stare followed by a very small and uncertain smile.

“I said I would return, did I not.” Bolstered by the hint of recognition and pleasure, Círdan came to stand at Ereinion’s side and placed a hand on his shuddering back. “Ranlhach tells me that you have been very good.”

The child felt very bony and fragile, not dissimilar to the tiny chick he had found once, tumbled out of its nest. He had kept it warm and safe, but he had known that death would be quick and merciful.

“No.” Ereinion squirmed to wrap as much of himself as possible around the Shipwright’s arm. “I have been bad.”

Círdan’s bushy brows drew together, but he did sit down on the edge of the table and did not complain when Ereinion decided to wriggle so close that he had little choice but to hold him.

“I bit the nasty healer.” Ereinion frowned as Ranlhach pressed his ear to his chest and tapped his back a few times. It was quite obvious that he would not be able to keep such an infraction from the Shipwright, and he would rather have his scolding over with. “What does this word mean in Sindarian?”

“It is a word that you should not speak, Ereinion!” Ranlhach said hastily, before Círdan could come up with an explanation that was not entirely suitable for such small ears. The young prince obviously learnt quickly and his memory was precise.

“Huiluin said it.” Ereinion stuck out his chin obstinately.

“You have bitten Huiluin?” Círdan thundered in disbelief, things slowly falling into place. “He is a friend of mine, Ereinion.”

“I did not like him!” Ereinion glared at the Shipwright and pulled himself angrily from Círdan’s arms before thinking better of it and slinking back.

“Nevertheless, you will meet again.” Círdan looked severely at the small elf. “I think that you should apologise.”

Huiluin was a frequent enough visitor to his home that any enmity between the pair would quickly become awkward.

“I do not want to!” Ereinion said imperiously, stiffening his elbows and sticking out his legs rigidly.

The Shipwright’s pale eyes widened and he glanced quickly at Ranlhach, only to find the younger elf watching him with an expression of surprise and curiosity. In truth the apprentice healer was still little more than a child himself and it would not be fair to look to him for advice.

“You may not want to, Ereinion.” Círdan spoke in a very low and serious voice, bending so that his face was very close to the child’s. “But it may well be wise.”

Ereinion blinked twice, biting his lip as he tried to ascertain how far the Shipwright was willing to take this.

“I will not!”

His voice wavered slightly, and he was quite ready to have Círdan take him off by one arm to mutter his excuses, but to his surprise the Shipwright made no further move.

“You are free this afternoon?” dismissing rude and worthless children from his thoughts, Círdan turned to more pleasant company, and when Ranlhach nodded added, “Come to dinner.”

He had feared that there were none left alive when he had arrived at that settlement some fifteen years ago now. They had been a force too little and too late, and it was only as the smoke had cleared that they found a weary child crouched over his father’s body, attempting to stem the flow of blood with his hands.

He had invited the young elf into his home then, intending to watch over his progress as he settled into first assisting Huiluin and then an apprenticeship in the Houses of Healing. Somehow their tradition had never stopped.

Nodding his thanks, Ranlhach lifted Ereinion down from the table and sent him scurrying to dress.

“He is doing as well as may be expected,” Ranlhach murmured in a low voice, then switched into the tongue of the Falathrim for privacy. “He has not eaten properly for quite some time and his cuts and bruises have not healed. They have ridden hard from Hithlum and it will take a while before he is quite himself. I shall give him something for the pain, and it will help if you add a pinch of this to his bath water.”

Círdan watched silently as his friend packed a number of small pouches into a wooden chest.

“He may rinse his mouth at night with a little salt in warm water. Give him plenty to eat, and milk whenever he wants it. You must keep him warm.” Ranlhach sighed and looked despairingly at his lord. “He needs to be wearing a cloak and hood.”

“He chose not to.” Uncomfortable under this youngling’s bewildered stare, Círdan shoved his hands into his pockets and glared at the distant sea. “He was asked.”

“Círdan,” Ranlhach turned to his friend, frowning in disapproval, “You have charge of this child, and he is a child. He may not know what is best for him, and in such times you must take responsibility for his care.”

“What do you suggest,” Círdan said too softly, his frown matching the younger elf’s, “that I force the boy to carry out my wishes?”

“Yes!” voice tinged with frustration, Ranlhach began clattering jars back into place. How the King and Queen of the Noldor had ever seen fit to entrust their only son and heir to an elf such as this was beyond him. It would not be long before Ereinion would return here, he did not doubt, weak with tiredness or dizzy from thirst.

“Because I am powerful?” Círdan raised one eyebrow questioningly, “And he is yet small and weak?”

Ranlhach let out his breath in an excessively loud sigh. “Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”

“No, Ranlhach.” The Shipwright shook his head slowly, looking very grave. “He is but a child, but he will be High King of his people before his time. I will not teach him a lesson I will not be proud to see him repeat.”The younger elf flushed and opened his mouth to elaborate, but before he could speak the door swung upon and the cause of their dispute returned to their midst.

“What were you saying?” Ereinion looked up at the serious faces with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “Were you speaking in Falathrin?”

Círdan and Ranlhach exchanged glances and as neither of them spoke, Ereinion continued.

“Naneth said that you would speak Falathrin, but I cannot understand it.”

Chewing on his lip, Ereinion wondered for the first time how many people in the Havens really did speak the dialect. His Adar had said that as long as he spoke Sindarian then that was all they could ask from him, but the thought of having secret conversations carried on over his head was quite enough to make him embrace another tongue.

“I only know Sindarian and Quenya, and once one of Adar’s visitors taught me some Dwarvish.”

“Indeed, it was Falathrin.” Círdan said heartily, hoping to cover Ranlhach’s sudden discomfort on hearing mention of Quenya. “It is the tongue of my people.”

The Shipwright’s gaze met Ereinion’s for a second then the elfling looked hurriedly at the floor. He had been on the brink of demanding to be taught the language, but that would make things seem more real. If he did not believe that he would be returning home soon then nobody else would believe it for him.

“Why do we not go to the gardens?” smiling once more, Ranlhach led the way downstairs into the walled gardens and shepherded the young prince out of the door. “Why do you not go and play a little while, Ereinion. Círdan and I have matters to discuss.”

“You have me to discuss.” Ereinion turned and looked at the healer with very bright eyes.

“Aye, we have you to discuss.” Círdan confirmed, inclining his head towards a far corner of the wilderness. “But then we shall go home.”Ranlhach watched quietly for a moment as Ereinion walked quietly towards a low bench set in little copse of small trees and bushes. In the summer this was a favoured shady spot for the most unwell of the elflings to sit outside but he had never yet seen a healthy child choose it voluntarily. Later in the year fresh green leaves and bright flowers would surround it, but now it stood alone in a windswept garden amidst the skeletons of leafless trees. It was hard to think of a less inviting spot for a child to play.

“He will miss his parents, Círdan.” The younger elf frowned for a moment as Ereinion sat down despondently on the bench and curled his fingers tightly around a clump of cloth from his tunic. “He may miss them very badly indeed.”

The shipwright did not raise his attention from the wooden box of medicines for a moment, but then as the emphasis on the words came home to him he looked up to meet the young healer’s eyes.

There was a strange mixture of anger and resignation in those pale eyes, and some emotion that Ranlhach had not seen before. Had it been any other elf that stood beside him other than the Lord of the Havens he might have thought it to be fear, but he knew Círdan too well for that.

“We must hope for the best.” The healer turned back to the garden, his fingers accidentally brushing the back of the shipwright’s hand as he did so. “Perhaps he will just be a little weaker. A little slower to grow.”

---

It rained heavily on the way home, and trudging across the windswept shore Círdan could not help but feel a little pleased. Warm and dry under the thick wool of his cloak, the biting winds and freezing rain were little more than an inconvenience, but his insolent charge seemed to be learning his lesson in a most satisfactory manner.

Being as small as he was, Ereinion was finding it difficult enough to walk against the force of the wind, even without taking into account his sodden clothes. His feet were squelching in his boots and one sock had slipped down his ankle to form a wet uncomfortable ball. His hair was soaked and tangled, and every so often the wind would whip it with a stinging slap against his face. Some while ago Círdan had caught him looking pleadingly at him, evidently wishing to be lifted into the warm shelter of his cloak, but it had only taken one particularly ferocious scowl to cause him to concentrate on admiring the shining pebbles in the wet sand once more.

It was only as he stumbled over a stone and landed heavily on his outstretched palms, pausing a moment to gulp back tears before rising once more, that Círdan slowed his pace over the hard sand of the shore.

“Had you…” Standing tall above him, Círdan folded his arms across his chest with a far from sympathetic expression.

“That I know!” Ereinion snapped, suddenly sounding astonishingly like his father. Fierce dark eyes met Círdan’s for a moment, then his face crumpled as he struggled with tears. “I am cold. Take me home.”

Suddenly as uncomfortable as a half-grown soldier, Círdan thrust an awkward hand in the direction of the child, trusting that it would offer what comfort it could.

Sniffling, Ereinion wriggled some very wet fingers into Círdan’s palm and dawdled to make him slow down.

“Hurry!” Círdan snapped, dragging the young prince up the pebbles after him. “Ereinion, I am in no mood to wait for you.”

It was a foul day, and even those who had remembered their cloaks had little desire to linger.

“Wait…” Ereinion wailed, tears starting to trickle down his cheeks.

“For what purpose?” short-tempered though the Shipwright’s tone was, he did stop to allow the prince to catch his breath. The wind was howling past the cliffs now, and blinding sand was being whipped off the dunes. Pleased despite this as there were none on the beach to witness this battle of wills, Círdan’s beard twitched as he stared out to see.

Ereinion tugged Círdan’s hand to his face and wiped his nose on the back of one of the Shipwright’s warm fingers.

“I am little. You are supposed to look after me!”

Somewhat miraculously Círdan managed to hold his tongue.

“Nobody in their senses should have allowed me to go out without a cloak,” Ereinion glared accusingly up at Círdan and gave his fingers an extra hard tug, digging his now sadly blunted nails into his keeper’s hand for good measure, “Naneth said so!”

“Is that so?” Círdan’s long legs made easy progress up the uneven pebbles of the storm beach, leaving Ereinion stumbling behind him. “In my memory, it was you that allowed yourself to go out without a cloak.”

Ereinion’s pale cheeks pinkened slightly. “Well, so did you!”

“Aye, so it was!” Círdan hoisted the elfling so rapidly over a stile that it squealed, evidently quite convinced that it was to be thrown to the floor. “And do you remember what I said then, Ereinion? To your own discomfort be it, and so it has been.”

Ereinion gave him a bitter look, “I suppose you think it serves me right!”

“Aye,” narrowing his eyes at the child, Círdan flung open the door to his home and shoved the little boy inside. “Naturally.”

- - -

Some while later, now warm and once more wearing dry socks, Círdan descended the stairs from his chambers in search of food. Passing by his small sitting room, he caused to glance inside and stopped with a groan. Ereinion was huddled in a ball by the fire, knees drawn close to his chest and hands clenched tightly around them. He had taken his soldiers out of their box, but they were standing quietly beside him, obviously not played with.

“Ereinion!” voice sharp with frustration and worry, Círdan strode to the child’s side and extended a rough hand for him to take. “You should be changed! Have you no sense?”

If the child was as fragile as Ranlhach evidently thought, the last thing he should be doing was lingering in damp garments. Not that Ereinion could be accurately be described as damp. Even a full hour after coming in from the storm, his clothes were sticking wetly to his bony knees and elbows and the straggles of dark hair that fell across his face were dripping steadily into small pools on the floor.

“I cannot.” Turning a tearstained face up towards his guardian, Ereinion sniffed and spoke in a distinct whine. “I cannot reach the towels and I cannot reach my clothes and I cannot make the water hot and…”

“Oh very well.” Tone softening slightly in face of the child’s complete uselessness, Círdan hauled Ereinion to his feet and rather to his surprise managed to correctly interpret Ereinion’s scarecrow-like outstretched arms as a request to be carried.

It seemed that he would find cause to fashion small stools before long, as well as pegs.

- - -

“Ereinion!” Arnil snapped at long last, “It would be appreciated if you were to try.”

Once more warm and dry and with a bowl of vegetable soup inside him, Ereinion stared dreamily out of the window, allowing his tutors reprimands to wash over him as easily as waves on the shore. He had barely had time to finish his bread roll before Círdan had risen and announced that since he would begin lessons on the morrow, he should first meet Arnil so that he could find out what he knew.

Círdan’s library was a warm and comfortable room in the westerly wing of his house, with the high arched windows looking out over the gardens and the fields and hedgerows of the nearby farms. There were three Scots Pine trees standing in a circle outside the leftmost window, surrounding a tarnished copper sundial. Not that there was any sun today to work it, of course.

“Ereinion!” Arnil rapped his fingers sharply on the table. “Do you wish me to tell Lord Círdan how disobedient you have been?”

“Are there no books for elflings?” Ereinion asked politely. It had struck him as he had squirmed around in his chair that among the thousands of books and papers shelved in this great room, he could not see any smaller or more laden with pictures than the rest.

“No, there are no books for elflings.” Arnil glowered at the young prince and shoved a piece of slate under the elfling’s nose. “And small difference it will make to a child who cannot read.”

“I can read!” Ereinion wrinkled his nose at the librarian. “It is just that you write strangely.”

He had not chosen to live in this horrid place where people made the curves of their letters curl in different directions or made the proud straight pen strokes stoop. It was not his fault that he could make little sense of the words, and he had no intention of ever writing likewise.

“Do I indeed?” scowling himself now, Arnil tapped his chalk on the slate sending tiny fragments of dust spattering across the dark stone. He had heard of the arrogance of the Noldor before now, but even so, finding such a tiny elf so sure of his own superiority had been a shock. “In which case I suggest that you learn to read strangely, and quickly.”

Ereinion glared at the slate, the unfamiliar letters blurring as his eyes filled with tears. He did not feel like reading today, and in truth he doubted that the letters would ever be familiar as the old ones had been.

“I do not want to!”

He the slate across the old wooden table as hard as he could, sending it sliding into Arnil’s chest. The chalk bounced off the librarian’s red robes, leaving a dusty shadow, and rolled under a bookcase.

Arnil rose with a kind of forced calm, picked up the chalk and pushed his chair firmly beneath the table.

“In that case, I suggest we wander outside a little while. Perhaps you shall fare a little better with trees and flowers.”

- - -

"Lord Círdan," Arnil rapped sharply and pushed the door open, ushering Ereinion in ahead of him. "Come along, Ereinion."

The prince had not hurried forwards as expected, instead choosing to dawdle in the doorway, tracing a finger around the edging of one wooden panel. Voice tinged with annoyance now, he gave the child a little push forwards. "Ereinion, Lord Círdan is waiting."

It had been a long day, and the time spent with the young prince had not improved his mood. Tutoring a bright, interested and well-taught elfling had been a prospect he had agreed to readily enough. Dealing with a small, stubborn child barely able to recognise his letters was an entirely different matter.

Ereinion ran across the room to the most distant corner of the window seat and scrambled to safety, drawing a cushion in front of him in an unconscious effort to hide. There was a neatly folded woollen rug on the seat beside him, made of woven threads of blues and greys and greens. It looked almost like the sea if he screwed up his eyes in the right way, and the dangling tassels at the edge could be waves - or a waterfall.

Unaware that the shipwright had looked up from his papers at the frustration in Arnil's voice, and was now gazing at him thoughtfully, Ereinion twisted his fingers into the strands, moving them this way and that, weaving himself into the pattern. It was only as the librarian cleared his throat that Círdan broke away his attention, and turned to the librarian with a grunt.

"He is still a little tired from his journey, I am sure." Arnil said apologetically, trying to school his frown into a smile. "Much is yet unfamiliar to him."

The shipwright did not suffer fools gladly, and he could not help but feel sorry for the child. Círdan had little enough time for elflings as it was, but for a child so obviously slow...

"Aye?" Círdan's bushy brows rose suspiciously. It was rarely a sign of fair weather when one began with excuses.

"He is somewhat behind what would be expected," Arnil began gravely, then caught Ereinion's furious glare, and switched smoothly into the tongue of the Falathrim.

No longer able to follow the conversation by ear, Ereinion peeped surreptitiously out of the corners of his eyes, watching Arnil’s serious expression as he spoke quietly and calmly to the shipwright. Círdan was listening hard, he could tell, but every now and then those dark grey eyes would flicker towards him, and when the librarian at last fell silent, Ereinion found his eyes met by a very long and appraising stare.

Cheeks flushing and no longer able to meet the shipwright's eyes, Ereinion returned his attention to the rug, where his fingers were clenched too tightly around the brightly coloured strands of wool. He wanted to shout out that it was not fair, and that he was not stupid, and that he could read and write and understand things, at least as well as any other elfling, but there was no point. He had not been able to read what Arnil had written, and he had not known any of the tales that he had been told. Círdan had at least looked surprised when he had looked at him, something that Ereinion was fiercely grateful for, but that did not change anything. The people of the Havens spoke a language that he could not follow, and lived in an unfamiliar land with trees, flowers and wildlife that he knew nothing about.

Círdan and Arnil were talking together now, quietly and rapidly. Making plans perhaps, surely concerning him. They had switched back into Sindarian, but Ereinion no longer had the heart to listen. If the blanket was the sea, then the smooth golden wood of the bench could be the beach. It was a different sort of wood to the furniture back home too, but he liked this. The fire had been lit in the grate and the warm flickering light made the polished wood look like honey.

Sometimes in the winter evenings, when his Ada had been away and his Naneth had been up on the turrets, waiting, he and his grandfather would go and snuggle by the fireplace in his grandfather's room. They had toasted bread on the flames sometimes, and smothered it in melting salty butter and warm runny honey before sitting back on the rug together and munching happily as they had told stories. He had told his Agi all about the adventures he would have when he was older and was allowed to go and ride by himself, and Fingolfin had told him all about the adventures he had once had with his brothers. It reminded him of that, this wood.

"It may be a little soon, for that." Arnil's voice cut through his dreams, sounding amused, but not the sort of amused that he had heard before. "He has little grasping of any tales, even those of his own family. They may have had little time for him, but..."

“Be quiet! Be quiet!” up and on his feet before he even realised what he was doing, Ereinion charged at the librarian, butting his head against the elf’s knees, causing him to stagger back into the shipwright’s desk. “You do not know anything!”

Faced with a small, haughty and self-righteously furious elfling, Arnil made the grave mistake of allowing himself to smile.

“They did have time for me!” flushed with anger, Ereinion grabbed the nearest object from Círdan’s desk and flung it at the librarian with all his strength. “You know nothing!”

The little bottle spun in the air, cut glass catching the glint of the firelight. For a breathless moment, all three pairs of eyes watched its descent and then as it hit the ground in an explosion of shards of glass and black ink, Ereinion turned and ran, his socks slipping and sliding on the polished wood.

“Ereinion!” Círdan rose to his feet so rapidly that his chair was pushed back with a harsh squeal, and bellowed at the swinging study door.

There was no response except for the distant clap of the back door as it slammed shut in the wind.

Suddenly looking very weary, Círdan tidied his papers and strode wordlessly to fetch his cloak and boots. It was only as stepped out into the storm that he added behind him, “That was not well done.”

- - -

Please review. I have know way of knowing if its worth updating if you don’t.

It was cold and grey down on the shore tonight, and the harsh wind that cut across the darkening sea was whipping the waves into a pale froth. The air was damp with spitting rain and salt spray, and the sand passing beneath Ereinion’s running feet was almost a blur in the fading light.

He did not know how long he had been running now, aching feet thudding against hard wet sand and breaths coming in painful gasps. The hems of his leggings were heavy and rough with gathered sand and the wind was whipping his hair across his face, mingling dark strands with salt tears and mucus.

“Nana!” Ereinion’s voice came out as a thin and lonely wail, answered only by a seagull circling far overhead – a white speck against the dark sky. He had known that there was no point in calling.

He had fallen once or twice and his hands and knees were wet and sore and covered in clinging sand. One of his socks had come off somewhere along the way and the other flapped damply with each step.

This would be the kind of thing that his old nanny had always declared ruined a good pair of socks - along with pushing his toes through the little holes so they could see out, turning them into balls for winter play, and slipping and sliding across the dining room floor. Sand was gathering in the sock’s loose toe, and it would not be long before this one too was abandoned to the incoming tide.

He should probably not lose it. Naneth had always told him that it was wrong to waste things. He had not meant to drop the other one, but this would be his fault.

Halting rather suddenly, Ereinion hopped for three steps to pull up his lone sock and looked back for a moment at the long smooth curve of the shore behind him. The white tipped waves had washed away most of his footprints by now, but there was still a short trail of shadowed marks – alternating between soft scuffs and full footprints with toes.

The craggy cliff faces were shrouded in shadow and the windswept gorse and heather high on the cliff tops was only a silhouette against the deepening blue-grey of the sky. Behind some drifting clouds, Ereinion could make out a faint silvery crescent of moon, and although the stars were not yet out it would not be long before they were kindled.

He would have to stop soon and rest a little while before continuing at daybreak. He could catch fish from a rock pool, and even if salt water was not his most favoured of beverages, it would do for a night. There was bound to be a cave somewhere where he could gather dry wood and light a fire, and a nice long sleep would soothe his aching limbs.

But as Ereinion halted and scanned the boulders and crevices at the base of the cliffs for a likely hidey-hole, another far less welcome silhouette appeared around the point of the headland. For a moment the pair stood still, watching each other closely, then the crash of a particularly big wave broke the moment. Choking back fresh tears, Ereinion turned away from the shipwright’s bellow and bolted along the shore.

But despite his running and the shipwright’s walking, he did not seem to be gaining any ground. In fact Círdan seemed to be coming steadily closer with every over-the-shoulder glance that Ereinion dared snatch. Starting to sob in anger and frustration, Ereinion struggled on, stumbling over rocks and bits of driftwood, and doing his best to put off the inevitable scolding for as long as possible.

- - -

“Ereinion,” Círdan clapped a hand down onto the child’s shoulder, and then, on feeling the small body start to quiver, knelt down and added hastily, “I am not angry.”

Snivelling, Ereinion consented to being pulled closer. Círdan’s hand felt warm and firm against his shoulder and although he knew it was merely to stop him breaking away, it was comforting nonetheless.

“What were you doing, Ereinion?” The shipwright’s eyes met Ereinion’s for a moment.

He had been telling the truth when he had said that he was not angry, Ereinion knew. He merely sounded old and weary, and very tired of small boys that were neither welcome nor wanted to stay.

“Running,” Ereinion mumbled. It felt cold now with the wind coming in off the sea, and although he wrapped his arms around himself as tightly as he could, he could not stop shivering.

Círdan raised an eyebrow.

“I saw a map.” Ereinion stuttered miserably through his chattering teeth. “I thought that if I kept running…”

The Shipwright sighed and drew a corner of his cloak around the child. The sand was damp through his leggings, but now did not seem the time to move. “It is a very long way home, Ereinion.”

Ereinion snuffled and burrowed deeper into the cloak. It was made of a coarse wool, and was very itchy, but it was warm.

“I know I will not get there in one day, Círdan.”

Masked by the coarse hair of his beard, the corner of Círdan’s mouth twitched. The young prince had evidently not yet learnt to keep his scorn at another’s intellect from his voice.

“I am heading along the coast,” Ereinion explained quietly, “I shall continue northwards to the Firth of Drengist at which point I shall head inland.”

The child fell silent and Círdan knew not what to say. He would have to tell the boy of the unfeasibility of his plans, or such episodes would be repeated. But to do so would be cruel. He could feel Ereinion’s hope and expectation. The boy truly believed that this was possible.

Fingon had gone to great lengths indeed to protect his small son from the horrors of the land.

“It will take many days.” Círdan eyed his charge’s eager face and looked out to sea for inspiration. Then, slowly and carefully he traced the outline of the coastline into the hard sand at the water’s edge. Interested in spite of himself, Ereinion leant forwards, tugging the cloak from Círdan’s left shoulder as he did so.

“This is my home,” Círdan placed a small white spiral shell down onto the sand and reached for a gleaming black pebble, “And this is yours.”

Ereinion nodded and pointed at the map, substituting a tiny pink shell for the pebble. His Naneth had liked shells like that.

“Here, this is where I shall head inland. I may pass though Cirith Ninniach, then I need not climb the mountains alone.” He gave Círdan a warning look. “I know that I will not be able to pass over the mountains of Ered Lómin in winter.”

The shipwright nodded slowly. The young prince’s knowledge of the land was apparently better than Andir had thought, and rather more worryingly this escape had been planned.

Watching him closely, Ereinion allowed a glimmer of hope to flicker in his heart. Maybe he had managed to impress Círdan sufficiently that he would be allowed to continue on his venture. He would be able to catch small fish and crabs from the rock pools and later, as the weather grew warmer there might be blueberries on the mountain slopes.

“Where am I now?” Ereinion asked eagerly, dropping down onto his knees and crawling over the map to try and identify where he was from the profile of the coastline. “Here?”

Círdan shook his head, almost feeling pity for the child. Although Ereinion may have learnt his map by heart, he yet knew not of the scale of this landscape, or the tiny part he played in it.

“No, that is many days sailing hence, and that with good wind.” He placed a gnarled finger on the map, touching the white shell. “We are here.”

Ereinion looked at the map, then turned to his guardian with confusion in his eyes. “But that is where I started.”

“Aye,” Círdan nodded, “It will be a long road.”

Ereinion scowled and drilled his soggy sock further into the wet sand.

“You are lying!” Although his voice was loud, it lacked conviction, and was petulant rather than angry. “I have travelled some distance.”

The Shipwright looked at him sternly for a minute or two. The prince’s damp face had gone very pink, but he did not feel that it was due to fury.

“Aye, of course you have,” he brushed a few grains of sand from the edge of the indentation he had made earlier and spoke kindly, “I dare say that you might be here.”

This time Ereinion made no effort to even slow the tears from falling, and did not protest as Círdan hoisted him into his arms, tucked him into a fold of his cloak and wrapped a warm hand around his wet little toes. He sobbed on and off during the long walk home, until at last, his face burrowed against Círdan’s shoulder, he fell asleep.

- - -

“I do not think that Ereinion should start lessons for some while yet,” Círdan finished stoking the fire and turned to Ranlhach for confirmation, “It will not harm him to wait until he has settled.”

“But it might harm him if you do not wait?” Ranlhach took a sip of hot tea and finding it still rather too warm, placed it back on the windowsill.

Círdan grunted and sank back into his chair, picking up his own mug and warming his hands. It was warm in his study, and with his paperwork for the day finished, Ranlhach was a welcome visitor. Not only was it pleasant to talk to an adult instead of a child for a little while, there were decisions that he did not wish to make alone.

After a minute of silence, Ranlhach ventured further, “There is a reason for this?”

Círdan took a long draught of tea and set down his mug on top of some papers, shifting aside an open book to make room.

“Aye,” he paused and grimaced for a moment, phrasing the thoughts he wished to say, “He is very unhappy, Ranlhach. He will need a while to come accustomed to our way of things.”

“And you do not think the routine of lessons will reassure him?” Ranlhach probed gently. It would take quite some while for the elfling to settle, and somehow he could not see Círdan finding the time to entertain him in the meantime. At the very least, lessons would keep the child out from underfoot for part of the day.

There was a long pause, during which time the shipwright drummed his fingertips against the warm earthenware mug, and eventually he spoke. “Not whilst he is unable to do them.”

“Then you have made your decision.” Ranlhach picked up his mug once more, and catching Círdan’s exasperated expression laughed. “The elfling is in your care, my friend! I cannot make these choices for you!”

- - -

It was still dark when Ereinion woke, and the fire was still burning in the grate, although the face of the clock had turned well into the stars. The house was very still, and although it was not silent, Ereinion felt rather alone. The wind was howling outside, but muffled behind the deep red curtains it sounded exciting rather than worrying. The fire was crackling in a friendly enough manner, and occasionally a log would shift position with a little shower of sparks.

Sitting up slowly, Ereinion blinked sleepily as he peered around the room. He was in Círdan’s sitting room once more, although he could not remember being brought here. Someone had placed him on the little nest of cushions he had made the previous evening and he must have been asleep very deeply and for quite some time as his mouth was dry and he felt very warm. He was hungry too, and must have missed dinner, but there was a tray on the bench at the other side of the room that merited investigation.

Tipping himself and several cushions onto the rug, Ereinion got to his feet and moved unsteadily across the room. He was still only wearing one sock, and that was rather damp. Wrinkling his nose, Ereinion stepped on the flapping woollen toe to pull it off and left it in a soggy heap in the middle of the rug. There was still a coating of wet sand across his heel and toes, but if he rubbed at it with the cool smooth skin of his dry foot then it came off in a mixture of damp and dry grains. Satisfied at last, Ereinion scampered across the cold wooden floor and reached eagerly for the tray.

There was bread and slices of cheese and ham, a large ripe pear and – enough to convince him that the meal was meant for him – a tall glass of milk. Smiling at last, Ereinion retreated to the rug in front of the fire and lay down, alternating between sipping his milk, nibbling bits of cheese and watching the flames dance over the logs. Even when the tray was empty and all remaining dribbles of pear juice had been licked from his hands and arms, Ereinion was quite contented to remain sprawled at the fireside.

He had forgotten to tidy away his soldiers earlier, and many were still standing dutifully - awaiting his return, the firelight making the silver highlights on their blue painted tunics sparkle. A few though had fallen during the afternoon, and were lolling on the ground as if they were sleeping, empty eyes staring up at the high beams of the ceiling.

Suddenly remembering his soldier, deep in that dark forest with the flies, Ereinion began marching his soldiers back into their box, walking in slow straight lines, carrying their dead high on their shoulders.

“It is an honour to give your life in defence of your people,” the tallest soldier rolled the three bodies into the darkness of the box, and chivvied the remaining nine into lines to salute the dead. “We are all grateful for your sacrifice.”

“All honourable elves fit and able to bear arms must take up their sword to defend their people.” Ereinion told his assembled army, his voice very serious as he remembered his father. “All who do not are cowards and…”

“Suiliad, Ereinion.” Ranlhach’s voice sounded from nowhere and the elfling whirled around – cheeks flushed with the embarrassment at not having heard him approach. “Am I disturbing you?”

The elf’s voice was kind and soothing but Ereinion was not mollified. If there was one thing that he hated it was to be patronised. Anybody could see that they were disturbing his play, but that was never what grownups meant by disturbing people.

“I am tidying my soldiers.” Ereinion explained slowly and carefully, his tone making no attempt to disguise his disdain for the newcomer’s intellect.

“Ah!” Ranlhach sat down cross-legged on the rug beside him and lifted the dirty dishes out of the way. “These are standing in nice straight lines.”

Ereinion gave him a pitying look and did not deign to reply.

Cursing his entire lack of knowledge about the games of war favoured by the smallest of the Noldor, Ranlhach grinned weakly and nodded towards the box. “Here, you have forgotten some.”

The young healer reached for one of the figures in the box and moved to place him beside the others. “I expect he should like to stand in a straight line too.”

“No!” Ereinion cried, grabbing wildly at his soldiers and hugging them to his chest before anyone could interfere further. “That is a dead soldier! A dead one! He cannot stand.”

Ranlhach’s pale brows shot up in surprise, and suddenly rather unsure of himself, he reached for the box only to be fended off by a pair of ferociously kicking bare feet. Only this afternoon he had been struck by the child’s frailty, and Círdan had voiced his concerns about the child’s suitability for lessons, but it was only now that he began to consider that the child might be disturbed. What sort of elfling knew of death before he was even waist-high? There were already unpleasant whispers in the town about Kinslayers and their children, and there was no need to fuel the flames.

“But I am a healer,” Ranlach prised one soldier from Ereinion’s hand and rubbed it gently with his thumb, “Maybe I can make them better.”

Ereinion gave him a pitying look and snatched back the figure.

“You cannot heal dead people, Ranlach.” The elfling spoke wearily as if he himself were explaining the sorrows of the world to an innocent child. “No one can.”

- - -

“Is that a picture?” Ereinion craned his neck to see the page, voice high-pitched with excitement. “I thought that you said there were no pictures?”

“There are a few,” Cirdan admitted reluctantly. “A very few.”

Despite only being some handful of minutes along this dreadful path, he could no longer remember what had possessed him to venture this way. It was already far past Ereinion’s bedtime, and the elfling should have been tucked up silently in his bed and he himself should have been reading at his leisure in his own room. Instead – waylaid by a tearful, homesick and lonely little elf – he had managed to agree to sitting in a knobbly rocking chair with a red-eyed elfling on his lap and a most boring book in his hands.

Unfortunately Ereinion did not seem to find this story boring at all, and if possible seemed further from sleep than he had been at the start of the exercise.

“Can I see?” Ereinion asked, and then, without waiting for an answer squirmed up against Cirdan’s side, digging a very pointed elbow into the shipwright’s ribs in his efforts to see the page. “Is that the dragon?”

Círdan snorted contemptuously. Anybody could see that it was meant to be a dragon as easily as anyone who had ever seen a dragon could tell that this artist had not.

“It is a very green dragon.” Ereinion stabbed at the page with a finger and spoke accusingly. “Adar says that dragons are black.”

“Aye, so they are.” Círdan agreed. “It is not a very good picture.”

Ereinion gave a small snort and spoke with scorn. “I bet the person who drew this never even saw a dragon!”

Breaking into a rare and genuine smile beneath his beard, Círdan turned the page. “I do not suppose that he had.”

“I shall see dragons when I am older,” Ereinion said proudly, “And I shall draw them black.”

One of Círdan’s bushy brows rose slightly but he saw no need to comment, and after a moment Ereinion let his head rest against the shipwright’s chest once more. Círdan had resumed reading in his deep voice, and with one ear pressed against the coarse cloth of his tunic, Ereinion could hear his heart beating.

“Círdan?” Ereinion’s voice, now softer and quieter, cut across the story.

“Ereinion?” Círdan paused in the tale once more to look down at his small and suddenly distinctly sleepy charge.

“The language of the Falathrim?” Ereinion squirmed and wriggled into the most uncomfortable possible position.

“Aye?” feigning sleepiness himself, Círdan rearranged the position of Ereinion’s bony little knee.

“Is that what you normally speak?” Ereinion absently pushed a handful of cloth into his mouth for sucking. It was an old habit, but one that could always calm him.

“Among friends, aye.” Círdan used one finger to pull the sleeve of his tunic aside.

Ereinion frowned a little as he considered this.

“Is that what everybody normally speaks?”

“It is not widely spoken outside my lands, but within my walls, aye.” Círdan peered suspiciously at the elfling, wondering where these questions were leading. “It is our language, our culture.”

“Will you teach me?” Ereinion spoke in a rush, his voice very quiet and his eyes full of tears. “Do not tell me there is little point, for even my father does not think I will return home until I am old.”

Círdan gave him a quick look and placed a warm and comforting hand on his arm. “Aye, if you wish me to. I should like that.”

Smiling rather shyly, Ereinion nestled his head into Círdan’s shoulder and let his eyelids flicker half-closed, adding in a very small voice, “I should like that too.”

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