It was Midwinter's Eve in Imladris, and the seven-year-old sons of Elrond were far too excited to sleep. Celebrian had been in with beakers of hot milk and cuddles half an hour beforehand, but now, walking down the corridor to his own chambers, Elrond could hear the whispers and giggles of a pair of very wide awake elflings.

"Boys?" Elrond pushed the door open a crack and listened for the telltale scampering of feet back across the floor as one twin or the other hurried back to their own bed.

"Ada?" One of them asked through the dark, sounding far sleepier than was possible for a child that had been squealing with mirth but a few minutes earlier.

"Are you not yet sleepy?" Putting aside all thoughts of some uninterrupted time with his wife, Elrond lit the lamp on the sideboard and turned to his sons.

"No."

"Not yet."

Both looked pale and rather dazed in the sudden brightness, and although their blankets and pillows were strewn haphazardly across both their mattresses - a fair indication as to what had been occupying their time, Elrond could not bring himself to be cross with them.

"You will be tired tomorrow if you do not sleep." He sat down on Elladan's bed and patted the mattress next to him, indicating that Elrohir should join them. "Would you like a story to help make you sleepy?"

Elladan and Elrohir looked inquiringly at each other, then both nodded at the same time.

"Yes please, Ada."

"Very well," Elrond smiled at his sons, "I shall tell you a tale of the first Midwinter that we spent in the company of Ereinion Gil-galad. We had lived on Balar for a number of weeks by then, and I had begun to trust those that cared for me."

"Was Gil-galad good at caring for you, Ada?" Elladan snuggled up to his father's right side and tugged half of a blanket over him. It was a frosty night and the room was cold for those dressed only in nightgowns.

"Did he ever play soldiers with you?" Elrohir asked seriously as he hurried to cuddle against his father's left arm. "Was he good at telling bedtime stories?"

Elrond chuckled and leant forwards to ruffle Elrohir's dark hair. "He was. Although it was his Naneth that did most of the caring at that time."

"Gil-galad had a mother?" Elladan queried disbelievingly. "A proper Naneth?"

"Of course," Elrond chuckled, "You did not think that anyone would leave two young elflings to the care of only that grumpy shipwright and a High King not yet within reach of his majority?"

Elladan and Elrohir looked at him as if he had introduced a new and wholly unfamiliar idea.

"She had come to Balar soon after the death of the High-King Fingon. She stayed at Cirdan's leisure for many years, until Gil-galad was well into his kingship." Elrond explained patiently, wondering who exactly the twins had imagined mopping up grazed knees, sewing eyes back onto stuffed animals and doing all the other things that any elfling needed to keep happy and healthy. "Gil-galad was barely out of childhood himself and had quite enough on his hands. . ."

"Running a kingdom!" Elladan broke in proudly.

"And spearing orcs!" Elrohir beamed up at his father.

"Aye." Elrond nodded at both his sons, then smiled. "Although this Midwinter he was more worried about remembering his speeches and getting to his councils on time. He had counsellors to help him though."

"Like Erestor?" Elrohir asked, rubbing his cheek up against his father's sleeve.

"Just like Erestor." Elrond confirmed. "Only these counsellors were strict and boring and were always complaining that Gil-galad was not tidy enough or serious enough or kingly enough."

"Just like Erestor." Elladan said with an understanding nod.

~*~

Elrond woke with a start and sat up in bed so suddenly that Neldor, the roughly carved rabbit that he had once been given, slid off the sheets and landed on the wooden floor with a clatter. He had been dreaming of his Naneth and Adar and although he had wanted to hold onto the dreams they had been so frightening that they had disturbed him from sleep.

It was Midwinter's morning, he knew that much, but he was not sure what time it was. It was dark outside, and he could hear his brother Elros' steady breathing from the bed next to his, but it could not be very early for the candle on the chest had nearly burnt down during the night and he did not feel tired. Unsure of whether to rise or whether to sleep for a little longer, Elrond rescued Neldor and snuggled down amidst the pillows and blankets to think.

This was the first Midwinter in many years that he had woken up in a warm and comfortable bed. He and his brother had spent much of the last three years in the care of Maglor and Maedhros - the elves that had taken them captive when their home had been attacked - and the winters in their camps had always been bitterly cold. Last year they had huddled around the fire and sang and listened to Maglor tell tales of how Midwinters had once been. There had not been much food, but Maglor had spoken of whole roast pigs and spiced honey cakes and wine and then they had not felt as hungry. He had told of people dancing and minstrels singing and making music, and then he had sung some of the old songs to them. They were meant to be joyful and merry, but to Elrond's ears, he had never heard his keeper sound so sad.

As for the Midwinters before their captivity, neither he nor his brother could remember much. His father had sailed away many years before, and his mother had been lost during the attack on the Havens so there was nobody to remind them. Sometimes he thought he could remember his Naneth dancing, or his Ada letting him taste some wine, but he was never sure if they were real or just dreams.

There was a faint creak of a door opening in the distance, and Elrond pricked up his ears and listened. He had been staying on the Isle of Balar for almost two months now, ever since Gil-galad's soldiers had found them by the waterfall, and he was becoming used to the usual morning sounds of his new home.

Whoever it was was trying to be quiet, because their footfalls were slow and muffled. They had hit their elbow on the doorframe and it sounded as if they had tripped over the bit of driftwood that Elros had left on the floor the previous evening. It was not Cirdan though, for there was no cursing, and holding his breath to aid listening, Elrond leant forwards and waited eagerly for confirmation that it was exactly who he thought it was.

A faint slithering noise as whoever it was skidded around the corner in their socks provided the young half-elf with the information that he needed and smiling widely, Elrond slipped out of bed and padded to the doorway.

~*~

"Gil-galad!"

Elrond's delighted voice seemed far too loud in the silent hallway, and the young High King turned around with a pained expression. Now that he was standing in the beam of light from the lantern on the wall, Elrond could see that the young king was dressed in only a pair of crumpled leggings and his nightshirt. His long black hair was hanging in wild tangles across his face and shoulders and he was carrying his boots in one hand.

"Hush!" Gil-galad pressed his finger to his lips and glanced around with an expression of extreme guilt and unease. "Do not wake the others!"

Elrond froze, afraid of making a sound, but ran forward gladly when Gil- galad beckoned him. "What are you doing?"

The child's whisper was so quiet that Gil-galad almost did not catch it. Smiling a little, Gil-galad placed a hand on Elrond's shoulder and knelt down to speak in a low voice.

"I am going for a walk. But I must not make a sound because. . ."

The High King pointed at the shipwright's door and followed this swiftly with a rather realistic and extremely violent throat-slit motion.

Elrond's eyes widened, but he relaxed when he saw his companion's smile. Cirdan the Shipwright had once been a friend of his father, but he thought that he was rather frightening. Once, when Gil-galad had sailed out in the bay instead of going to his tutor, Cirdan had shouted so loudly that Elrond had wanted to cry.

Elrond gave Gil-galad his best hopeful smile. "Can I come?"

~*~

"Are you going to councils?" Elrond skipped behind the High King, trailing his cape behind him and trying to put his boots on as he walked. "You are not wearing your crown."

"No," Gil-galad said simply as he slung his cloak around his shoulders and stepped out into the frosty air, "I am not."

Gil-galad never wore his crown in the mornings, even though it was very nice and shiny. Elros thought that that was stupid and had once declared that if he were a king he would even wear his crown in bed and in the bath. When he had told the High King this, Gil-galad had begun to say that crowns were foul things and that any king with sense would wear them swimming and sink the dratted thing, but then Cirdan had glared at him, and after that he would only say that crowns hurt if you forgot that you were wearing them and poked yourself in the eye with them by mistake.

"Are you late for your councils?" Elrond skipped through the door that Gil- galad held open for him and reached for a warm hand to hold onto. It was cold outside and elves always forgot the mittens and scarves that their Naneth had made them wear in winter. "Again?"

The child's voice sounded rather weary causing raised eyebrows on the King's behalf.

"I am not late that often." Gil-galad wrinkled his nose. "In fact, today I am early. It is just that I do not intend to go and be early until I am already late."

Elrond frowned as he deciphered these words then looked up severely at the High King. "You will make people cross. Cirdan said that you were irresponsible."

"My councillors are always cross." Gil-galad shrugged, took Elrond's hand and began running across the lawns to the path that lead to the cliffs. "And Cirdan has been telling me that I was irresponsible and childish since I was but ten years old."

"But," Elrond spluttered for breath as he tried to keep up with the elf's long legs, "Your Naneth said. . . that you took. . . after your Adar."

Gil-galad stopped abruptly. "She did?"

"At your age." Elrond gasped for breath then added peevishly. "You go too fast."

"Sorry." Gil-galad said absently, then with more curiosity asked, "Naneth said I was like my Adar was?"

"Yes." Elrond looked up at him in confusion. It was what he had just said. "But Cirdan just grunted and said that it did not bode well for your Kingship if you were."

"He did?" Gil-galad scowled furiously at the undeserving elfling and began striding across the grass at a great pace, dragging Elrond behind him. "My Adar was a good King!"

"I know." Elrond said consolingly, patting Gil-galad's hand as well as he could considering the speed at which they were going. "I think he meant. . . that he meant that. . . maybe he did not have to be King until he was older than you are?"

He did not really understand all the fragments on conversations that he had heard, but Gil-galad seemed to because he fell quiet and began to walk at a kinder pace. He did not really know how old the High King was anyway. He was as tall as any of the properly grown-up elves and had a crown that was bigger than anyone else's circlet, but he was all skinny and gangly and his hands and feet were too big. Everyone kept saying how young he was and worrying about it, but to Elrond he was as big and wise as any of the other elves in the palace.

"Gil-galad?" Elrond tugged on the older elf's hand.

"Yes."

"When I am all grown up like you, will I have to have counsellors too?" Elrond bit his lip in worry. "I do not think that I want to grow up."

"Not if Eru has mercy on your soul." Gil-galad groaned loudly and kicked a pinecone that had foolishly strayed onto his path into the bushes. "And had I known that I would have to have counsellors, I would not have wanted to either."

~*~

"Gil-galad!" Elrond called breathlessly, tears forming in his eyes as he tried to keep up with his companion. "Wait!"

They were climbing the steepest bit of the hill that towered above the port where they lived now, and were nearly at the beacon at the top of the hill. The steps here crudely hewn from the rock of the cliff and were covered in ice.

"Hurry up, Elrond!" Gil-galad called from the summit, barely sparing a glance to the child struggling behind him. "This is the best bit!"

The wind was howling across the top of the cliff and it was bitterly cold. Their hair was whipped back from their faces, and when Elrond tried to pull his hood up for warmth it kept being blown back. They could see the sea extending in almost a full circle around them, a pale grey-silver in the early light of dawn. It had begun to sleet - the closest thing that it got to snow this close to the sea - and a few soggy flakes stuck to the thick wool of their cloaks.

"I am cold." Elrond complained, barely able to speak clearly through his chattering teeth. He knew that he should be quiet and enjoy the wild freedom of the moment just as Gil-galad was doing, but the skin on his arms was getting goose bumps and he couldn't stop shivering.

"Oh." Gil-galad looked rather shamefaced once he noticed how very cold Elrond was. He often forgot that the young half-elves felt cold and hunger more rapidly than he did. "Here, follow me! This will warm you up!"

Elrond looked puzzled as Gil-galad grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the narrow zigzag path that wove down the cliff to the shore - an expression that quickly turned down to horror as the High King began running, dragging him along with him. Later he thought that he must have screamed most of the way down that descent. The rocky ground seemed to race away under them and the clumps of white flowers and bright sea pinks seemed but a blur as they passed. The crashing waves and shingle of the shore seemed so far beneath them, and Elrond was terrified that he would fall, but by the time that they had reached the soft springy grass of the early dunes he had joined Gil-galad in wild, breathless laughter. He had never known anything that felt so much like flying.

Their laughter breaking into deep gasps for air, the pair raced down off the dunes onto the hard sand of the shoreline - and coincidentally directly into the path of the very sea-elf that the young king had hoped to avoid.

"Ereinion Gil-galad." Cirdan raised his bushy eyebrows but he did not look surprised.

Somehow Cirdan always sounded a tiny bit sarcastic whenever he said Gil- galad.

"Cirdan!" Gil-galad made a very bad attempt at disguising the horror in his voice. "Greetings on this fine morning."

Cirdan did not bother to return the greeting, merely casting an appraising eye at the King. The truant pair fell in step with the shipwright and continued walking along the shoreline in silence.

"Your counsellors are seeking you." Cirdan commented at length. "I passed them as I left the south courtyard."

"It is not very wise to seek me in a group of three." Gil-galad grumbled. "They would have done better to split up."

"Indeed." Cirdan said dryly.

"Why can they not advise themselves on tracking skills." Gil-galad picked up a large piece of driftwood and whirled around with it, practising dramatic yet rather unlikely attack moves. "We would have left evidence on the frost of the lawn at least."

Elrond looked down guiltily at his frost-covered boots. He was half-elven and could not run lightly over snow or dance over sand and frost without sign as elves could.

"It would have been wiser perhaps for the one which they sought to complete his duties before gallivanting off at his own leisure." Cirdan said blandly. He did not look at Gil-galad but he noticed Elrond's unhappy expression and quickly squeezed the half-elf's shoulder.

"They do not know that you have found me." Gil-galad said a touch sulkily. "Maybe if. . ."

"Ereinion!" Cirdan said sharply, and surmising that neither the High King nor the Lord of the Havens was joking anymore, Elrond shrunk frightened against the shipwright's legs.

Gil-galad scowled, but threw down the stick with which he had been swiping at clumps of marram grass and set off towards the palace at a run.

"Oh all right! I am going!"

"You went off without me!" Elros shouted at the top of his voice, giving his brother a shove into the wardrobe. "On Midwinter's Day!"

"But I am here now." Elrond said in an anxious little voice, blinking back tears as he rubbed his bruised back. "I was not gone long."

"But it is Midwinter's Day." Elros' eyes filled with tears and he stamped his foot on the floor in frustration. "We are supposed to be together."

"I was only walking," Elrond reached out to pat his brother's arm, "Just walking, Elros."

Elros did not like it when he spent time with other people that he could have spent with him. He had not liked it when Elrond had played with the other elflings in the fountain and had liked it even less when someone had invited Elrond to a picnic but forgot to invite him.

"But you left me." Elros wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "You do not like me best any more!"

Elrond looked at him, stung by the anger in his brother's words.

"I do! I do! I will never like anyone better than you, I promise."

This did not seem to mollify his brother. Elros had gone very pink and he had clenched his fists tightly - something that he always did when he was trying his hardest not to cry.

"But you were with Gil-galad and Círdan," he glared at his brother with all the hurt and anger that he could muster, "if you really liked me best then you would have been with me."

"I was not with them. Not really." Elrond said hastily. He did not want his brother to begin sobbing and ruin Midwinter's Day for everyone. "I just went for a walk with Gil-galad and then Círdan made him go to his council so then he took me home but then I was cold so. . ."

Elrond took a deep breath and then continued at double the pace before Elros could interrupt, "he made me sit in the kitchen by the fire and drink some hot milk and then Gil-galad's Naneth came and told Círdan off for letting me go out without my thick tunic and woollen shirt and mittens and then she let me help her make fudge and told me stories until I was all warmed up again."

When his voice trailed off the room went very quiet. Elros was watching him with a very strange expression, and now that Elrond thought about it he knew what it was. It had sounded like he was part of a family without Elros. Neither of them could remember their Naneth ever making fudge with them and he knew that Elros would have enjoyed it just as much as he had done.

"I do not like it here!" Elros howled. "I want to go. . ."

He paused in mid-screech because he did not know what to say. They had no home to go to, and they did not know where Maglor was anymore. And however much he tried to ignore it, he could not help but feel that if Naneth and Adar were going to come back then they would have come already.

"Be quiet!" Elrond tried to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth, but only succeeded in poking him in the eye. "Be quiet, Elros!"

He did not like it when his brother spoke like this. He missed Maglor too, and he wanted his Naneth and Adar more than anyone did, but he was afraid that if anyone found out how ungrateful he was then they would not be allowed stay. They did not have anywhere else to go, and however much he was told that this was his home now, he never quite believed it.

Elros let out a yelp of anguish and dug his fingernails as hard as he could into his brother's arm. "I liked Maglor better than Círdan and Gil-galad!"

"Don't!" Elrond pulled back from his brother, struggling against tears as he watched tiny crescents of blood rise up from the cuts.

Both twins watched as a trickle of blood ran down Elrond's pale arm, their eyes too large in their thin faces.

"I am bleeding." Elrond gasped, poking his scratch as if hoping it would go away.

"I am sorry. I am sorry." Elros did not seem able to take his eyes away from the blood. He had seen so much before that it should have been just the same as normal, but this was his brother's blood. His blood.

Elrond whimpered and patted ineffectually at his arm.

"Naneth would have made it better with a kiss." Elros said miserably, trying to dab away the blood with part of his undershirt.

"We have Gil-galad's Naneth." Elrond said, his eagerness for his brother to be happy somewhat marred by his fright. It was not that he wanted to have another Naneth, it was just that they had not seen their Naneth since the day that elves had come with swords, and they both knew what elves did with swords. The healers had said that it was not wrong to want a Naneth. "She is nice."

"I do not want Gil-galad's Naneth!" Elros wailed forlornly. "I want mine."

~*~

"You cannot sign like that." The tallest of the counsellors leant over the High King's shoulder and raised his eyebrows at the elaborate curls of wet ink.

Gil-galad hunched his shoulders over his work and lifted his quill to examine his work. It looked exactly as it always had done. There were no smudges or ink blotches to quibble over, and he had not been so stupid as to misspell his own name.

He was spending his morning in the council chambers as had become tradition over the last years. Although they were officially his council rooms, it did not feel like a home. He would sit stiffly and attempt to complete the duties that were set for him, while the three surviving of his father's counsellors would peer over his shoulder and correct every small error.

When he had been small and living in Hithlum with his father and grandfather, the study where they had worked had been cosy and safe. There had been interesting pictures and carvings to look at, and comfortable rugs to curl up on. He could remember one of his favourite treats as being allowed to sit on his grandfather's knee and make smudgy seals for any scraps of parchment that they could find. Back then the most arduous task that he had faced was picking little bits of wax from his fingertips to make tiny cups and saucers.

"It is hardly tidy." The second counsellor sighed, giving the High King's quill a disapproving look as it rather traitorously dripped a large splotch of ink onto the parchment.

"Your father always." The third counsellor began, probably to drone on about how very perfect father had been compared to son. It was by far his favourite past time. Tuning him out very effectively due to long hours of practice, Gil-galad dabbed at the spilt ink with a bit of blotting paper.

"Your grandfather's handwriting was exquisite." The second groaned. "It is a pity that that shipwright did not. . ."

He was silenced by a warning glance from his companions, but the scorn had been apparent in his voice and Gil-galad's eyes narrowed.

"Here, this is how your father signed his name." The third counsellor pushed a scrap of paper under the High King's nose, hoping to soothe things.

"Keep the line straight." The second counsellor craned over the High King's shoulder to examine his handwriting. "And are those loops really necessary, Ereinion?"

"Gil-galad." Gil-galad said stiffly. He knew that there would be eyebrows raised that he could not see, but he no longer cared. "I would like you to call me Gil-galad."

There was a moment's silence and then the third counsellor leant over the High King and rapped firmly on the paper, speaking with a little more kindness than had been customary of late. "Perhaps it would be best for you to sign as much like your father as you can."

~*~

Elrond pattered along the corridor and paused at the doorway to the large and luxurious chamber that they used as a sitting room. Both Círdan and Gil- galad's Naneth were in there, talking quietly. Elrond could never understand how the shipwright could talk and read at the same time, or how anyone could embroider such delicate patterns onto things as she sang or laughed.

They were both frowning at the moment though, and speaking again about how young Gil-galad was. Neither of them looked happy.

"Ereinion is too young yet to bear the burden of such things." Gil-galad's Naneth said, stitching a spray of leaves onto the collar of a shirt with golden thread. "He needs time to learn and grow wise."

She could not help but wish that her son's growing wisdom would not be matched with a corresponding increase in height. In the last few years he had turned from a skinny and lanky youth into a young elf already as tall as his father - even if he was not yet as broad or as muscular as he would eventually become. Lengthening and letting down the hems of formal garments had become a repetitive and boring task.

"He does not only need time to gain wisdom," Círdan said grimly, turning a page in his book and glaring at the words. "He needs time to play."

The queen looked hard at the shipwright and said firmly, "He will be a fine King. His father and grandfathers were fine elves, and he grows like them."

She had not wanted her son to inherit the Kingship of the Noldor whilst still little more than a child himself, but she had no control over the happenings in this world. Gil-galad had been but twenty-six years old when his father had passed to Mandos, and barely into his sixty-fifth year when his uncle had been killed in the fall of Gondolin leaving him High King of the Noldor. He may not yet have reached the strength and wisdom of his forefathers, but it was unfair to dismiss his efforts as those of a mere child.

"You misunderstand me," Círdan said calmly, "He is already a fine elf, but a young one. Young elves need time for leisure."

"You should let him play by the sea more." Elrond piped up from the doorway. Old elves like Círdan always thought leisure meant reading or carving or something else that involved sitting still, but anyone with sense could see that Gil-galad liked splashing in the waves and jumping down the dunes just as much as he and Elros did. "Chasing the waves is much more fun than sitting still."

Both elves stopped speaking rather abruptly, and turned to the small half- elf. Although everyone tried to keep as much worry as possible from the ears of two children who had already seen so much, Elrond especially seemed to have a talent for finding things to become anxious about.

"Come and sit with us, Elrond." Gil-galad's Naneth patted the cushions next to her and held out her hand to the child.

He gladly skipped across the floor and burrowed against the queen's side once he got there, needing the comfort of her familiar feel and scent. Elros had not spoken to him since he had run out of the room earlier, and although he had looked high and low he could not find his brother anywhere.

"You should not make Gil-galad go to councils." Elrond said seriously, nodding slightly as he spoke. "He does not like them and says that his counsellors are about as good company as rotten haddock."

Neither of the elves said anything at this comment. The queen sighed and Círdan adopted a strange expression that looked almost as if he was trying not to chuckle.

"Ereinion must go to councils, just as you must learn to read and write." Círdan began seriously, when the child interrupted him.

"But he is in councils all the time!" Elrond exclaimed. He only had to spend a few hours each week in the library, and in truth he had been hardly been able to contain his joy when they had been told that they would be allowed books. "And anyway, I like reading and writing."

"And I am sure that in time Ereinion will grow to love councils," Círdan said smoothly. "In the meantime we must all try to cheer him as much as we can. Will you do that, Elrond?"

"Yes." Elrond nodded eagerly - proud that Círdan would trust him with such an important task, and added helpfully, "You should play with him with your spears. He likes that!"

Círdan winced and Gil-galad's Naneth snorted the kind of derisive snort that meant that her son had got exactly what he had wanted for his Midwinter gift. The Queen of the Noldor seldom criticised the shipwright's upbringing of her son, but she never seemed able to understand the young King's fascination with all things shiny and sharp. Although Elrond was sometimes a little curious as to what Gil-galad did with his spear; he had heard too many pointed comments about grown elves trying to skewer themselves with oversized darning needles to dare to mention it.

"Elrond," Círdan coughed rather loudly, "where is your brother?"

Elrond's face crumpled and hot tears rushed to his eyes. For a few minutes he had forgotten his brother and the argument, but now he would have to tell everyone all about it. The dried trickle of blood had washed off his arm, but Elros might stay angry with him for days. If they argued then they were scolded, but it always seemed to upset him more than it upset Elros.

"Is he hiding from you?" Gil-galad's Naneth brushed some hair back from the half-elf's flushed face. "Do not fret, my little one. He will soon come looking for you."

She was worried about the two little half-elves that had come into her care although she did not often speak of it. They had lost those that they had loved too many times, and it had taken them weeks to trust anyone with even the most simple things. Elrond had become shy and withdrawn - pathetically eager to please his carers, afraid of losing them once more. Elros tried to manage with a shaky bravado, unwilling to be friendly to newcomers and becoming viciously jealous of anyone who became between him and his brother.

"But he said that he would hate me forever." Elrond's voice was high- pitched and wobbled with imminent tears. "What if he never comes back?"

"He will." Círdan said grimly, not moving his eyes from the pages of his book. "Even stubborn elflings get hungry."

It sounded almost as though he spoke from experience, but Elrond knew that the shipwright had never had a wife or children.

"He will soon want to play," the queen promised, glancing over at her harp standing alone in the corner of the room. She had seldom played since her son had been sent away to the Havens many years before, but this little half-elf was so fond of the music that she often found herself making music when nothing else would calm him. "Since we have a little time, why do I not show you how to play some songs?"

Elrond beamed through his tears. There was nothing in Arda that he liked more than listening to the melodies of the harp, and Gil-galad's Naneth always played slowly enough that he could sing along with her. Maglor had taught them so many songs and it would be good to remember him.

~*~

As they finished the sixth or seventh melody, they both turned to the creaking and found a very stubborn and upset looking Elros standing there, kicking the door backwards and forwards against the doorstop.

"There you are, Elros!" the queen knelt down on the floor and held out her arms towards the child. After a moment's hesitation, Elros ran to her and buried his face in the soft red velvet of her gown. She held him tightly as he clung to her, and only let go when he wriggled out of her grasp. "We missed you!"

"Did you?" Elros asked doubtfully, looking as anxious and insecure as his brother was prone to for a moment.

"Of course." Gil-galad's Naneth smiled reassuringly at him and pointed at a pile of gifts resting in one of the chairs by the fire. There were bowls of fudge, and sugared and spiced fruits, buttery biscuits sprinkled with sugar, two pairs of blue knitted mittens and a number of carved wooden toys painted in bright colours. "People have sent you these. We have been waiting for you to come before looking at them."

Many of those on Balar had been moved by the tale of the little lost half- elven twins, and they had not been forgotten in the Midwinter gift giving. There were more than enough sweets and playthings to keep five or six children busy for years.

"For us?" Elrond said, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. They did not know many people in the Havens yet. "There is so much."

"Oooh!" Elros' eyes lit up at the unexpected kindness. He had never seen so many toys and good things in all his life, and it was more than enough to coax a smile to his face. He ran to the pile and burrowed around until he found a woven bag filled with wooden blocks in all sizes, shapes and colours. "Can I have this one?"

It was late in the afternoon by now and the sky was already darkening on this, the shortest day of the year. Elrond and Elros were lying on the floor building a city out of their new blocks, and finally released from his lessons, Gil-galad was kneeling beside them. He was still dressed in his leggings and nightshirt from the morning, but in an effort to appease his counsellors had thrown an ornately embroidered tunic of deep blue and silver over these garments. The overall effect was rather comical, especially with uncombed strands of black hair hanging over his eyes from underneath his crown, but nobody was laughing.

“Now, where shall we put these soldiers?” Gil-galad reached underneath the bench to rescue a small army of blue and silver soldiers that had somehow managed to roll almost out of reach. “What about this one with a spear?”

Elrond’s eyes widened. He did not like the soldiers that one of Gil-galad’s counsellors had given them, and neither he nor Elros would ever play with them, but Gil-galad seemed to like them best of all.

“There.” Elros pointed firmly to the far end of the room, scowling ferociously. Gil-galad should know by now that neither he nor Elrond liked games of war. He was upsetting Elrond and Elrond was too quiet to tell him to stop. “Under the bookcase.”

“There?” Gil-galad laughed, his hair falling into his eyes as he turned back to look at the bookcase. “What has this little elf done to deserve such a fate?”

Elrond and Elros exchanged anxious looks, almost unable to believe that anybody could laugh about soldiers and weapons. Tears were beginning to well up in Elrond’s grey eyes now, and Elros could feel his cheeks getting hot with anger. Gil-galad was supposed to be a King and know what it was to fight in battles. He should know about the smell of blood and burning homes. He should have felt the fear of the terrible silence when it all was over and nobody knew if anyone else was left alive. He should never laugh or joke about such things.

“He is you.” Elros said harshly, swiping down their wooden palace and reaching over the rubble to grip his brother’s hand. “He is a bad King and he is going to Mandos.”

Elrond’s fingers closed tightly around his brother’s, begging him to remain quiet. His heart was beating so quickly and loudly now that his blood seemed to be making a rushing noise in his ears. They would have to leave after this. They would have to. But it was winter and it was so cold. He had once heard Maedhros say that the half-elven were too frail to survive a snowfall without elvish care.

Gil-galad frowned but his tone was still joking as he waved the tiny figure in the air. “A bad King?”

“Yes.” Elros said viciously, his voice loud and high-pitched. He had got to his feet - dragging Elrond with him - and was standing stiffly, glaring at the High King. “He is late for councils and does not act like a King and... he shows little respect for the needs of his people and is a shame on his father’s memory.”

This had hit rather too close to home, especially as the last words had obviously been quoted. His cheeks suddenly pink, Gil-galad rose to his feet, towering above the twins.

“I think,” Cirdan said suddenly, getting to his feet and coming to Gil-galad’s side, “That we should put the soldiers away for a little while.”

Elrond watched anxiously as Cirdan replaced the soldiers into their wooden box and placed them safely on a high shelf. Elros was still standing with muscles taut and ready to fight, but the Shipwright patted him softly on the shoulder, moving to block the High King from sight.

“Sit.” Although Cirdan’s voice was kind, neither Elrond nor Elros had any difficulty in interpreting it as an order. They sat down amongst the ruins of their city, Elros shaking slightly with fury and angry tears, and Elrond looking lost and scared.

Giving Cirdan a meaningful look, the Queen got to her feet and seemed to glide across the room to comfort the twins. Speaking softly and melodically, she guided blocks back into place, and soothed Elros back into calmness.

“Ereinion,” Cirdan took a firm grip of the young King’s arm, and turned him forcibly aside. Beneath his fingers, the soft cloth of the nightshirt contrasted sharply with the heavy embroidered velvet of the tunic. “Come, let us take a walk.”

---

The wind was strong out on the cliff tops, sweeping in unhindered from the sea and tearing any last skeletal leaves from the gnarled branches of the stubby trees. Without the short legs and frailty of the young half-elven twins to worry about for once, Cirdan and Gil-galad had elected to take the steep path up the rocky cliffs and through the tough knee-high heather and bracken to the highest point on the coastline.

Neither had spoken since they had left the sitting room, beyond Gil-galad’s attempt to excuse himself to get changed first and Cirdan’s terse response that it did not appear that that was necessary. Despite that, Gil-galad did not think that the Shipwright was angry with him, for his gait was relaxed and he had offered a hand on the slippery sections in a friendly enough manner.

“Cirdan.” Gil-galad said at last, then when the Shipwright turned, found himself unable to phrase his question and merely shrugged.

Cirdan was wearing his silver hair tied back as usual and for a moment Gil-galad, struggling to clear windswept strands of hair from his eyes, wished that he had done the same.

“They have seen far too much.” Cirdan had no trouble interpreting the query, despite the lack of words. “As had you at that age. Do not expect them to respond to things as any other elfling would.”

Sobered by the solemnity of the Shipwright’s voice, Gil-galad slowed his pace to walk alongside the ancient elf.

“I did not...”

“You were not scared of toys, no.” Cirdan caught Gil-galad’s indignation and glanced sideways at him, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement. “But at times you worried us.”

Gil-galad gave him a sceptical look, clearly quite certain that he had never behaved in any manner that would be wondered upon.

“Do you not remember that visitor of mine, not long after you arrived...” Cirdan began, his amusement bringing his accent more strongly into his words. The Shipwright did not speak either Sindarian or Quenya natively, preferring the softer and more lyrical tongue of the Falathrim when among his own people, and even after many years he had not lost the pronounced lilt to his words.

“Well,” Gil-galad dug his hands into his pockets and rolled his eyes, “I did not like her. She treated me as a child.”

Grinning to himself, Cirdan turned to admire the view from the cliff tops, and after a minute or two of self-righteous solitude Gil-galad deigned to join him. They stood side by side, aware of each other’s nearby warmth and support, but admiring the white and silver coldness of the waters of the bay in silence. Despite the wind the water was almost still, acting as a mirror to the clouds overhead.

“Cirdan,” Gil-galad spoke sharply and looked keenly at the Shipwright. “Am I a bad King?”

Cirdan sighed deeply, and looked out to sea for a long while. A seagull was visible as a grey shadow, wheeling against the horizon.

“There are people who depend on you, Ereinion.” The Shipwright said sadly at last. “Do not forget that.”

---

The numerous garments that comprised the ornate outfit that the High King was to wear on state occasions were not of Gil-galad’s choosing, but on this occasion he had pledged to himself that he would wear them. Even the silken undergarments – far tighter than he was accustomed to and itchy from the heavy embroidery that adorned them – would be worn, even if it was impossible for any but he to tell which type he was wearing under his heavy robes.

Someone had laid out the individual garments on the smooth white coverlet of his bed, and this was where he stood as he dressed – close to the curtains that could be drawn around the bedposts, and ready to duck and hide should anyone unwelcome come to the door. There were no locks fitted on doors in the palace, and as yet the thought of the embarrassment of trying to explain to the Shipwright why precisely he needed one was enough to convince the young King that he should do without.

The grey leggings and shirt slipped on easily enough, but the light blue tunic embroidered with silver threads and pearls looked far too much like his Naneth’s gown for his liking and the heavy robes that were to be worn over them made him feel weary, even on sight. The threads of mithril and silver that adorned the robes may have been as light as a feather, but the same could not be said of the velvet itself. No expense had been spared in making these garments, that much was obvious in weight as well as appearance.

He had not noticed himself growing since he had last worn this outfit, but it fitted him better than it had then. At his coronation he had felt like a boy dressed up in his father’s robes, but now – a little taller and a little broader across the shoulders – they were beginning to feel more like his own.

On an impulse he crossed the room to stand before the mirror that hung over the basin, and turned up his collar as his father had been wont to do. There was a moment in which he smiled at himself in the mirror, but then catching sight of his mother in the reflection he hurriedly turned it back down.

“Naneth?” Gil-galad turned to his mother who was standing in the shadow of the doorway watching him, her face suddenly sad.

“You grow more like your Adar every day, Ereinion.”

Smiling quietly, the Queen came to stand behind her son, placing a cool hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were pale and slender against the deep blue of the official robes, and for the first time Gil-galad noticed a marked difference between her hands and his own, which had become toughened by hours of sword work and spear practice.

“I have something for you,” still smiling the Queen reached inside a small pouch and drew out small a mithril brooch, “It was once your father’s.”

Looking at his mother with a slight air of puzzlement, Gil-galad held out his hand and let the brooch tip out cold into his hand. “I thought I already had all that Adar had.”

The brooch glittered in the candlelight, and somewhere in the dark outside an owl hooted. It was simply crafted in the shape of an eagle, and now he thought about it Gil-galad could remember his father wearing it pinned to his collar, just above the third button of his shirt.

“You have all that your grandfather gave your father, yes.” The Queen confirmed, smoothly brushing a stray lock of dark hair back behind her son’s ears. “But it was I who gave your father this, and now it shall pass on to you.”

Gil-galad looked quickly at his mother then, wishing that he had not noticed the tears in her eyes, concentrated on his reflection in the mirror. He had meant to fasten it in the exact position his father had worn it, but he preferred it on the left.

“Come, it is time for us to leave,” the Queen quickly straightened her son’s tunic, tidied his braids as he sat on the edge of his bed lacing his boots, and finally ushered him from the room. “Do you remember all that you have to do?”

Rolling his eyes without much in the way of subtlety, Gil-galad pulled away from his mother and stalked towards the doorway. The Queen remained as calm and stately as ever, folding her son’s discarded clothing and pulling stray pillows back into their original position.

“Naneth,” Gil-galad paused in the doorway and looked back at his mother, his shoulders slumped. “Did Adar ever forget to straighten his tunic? Even once?”

“Ion-nîn!” Laughing lightly, the queen crossed the room and lightly touched her lips to her son’s forehead. “There was scarce a dinner where I did not have to tidy him thrice at least before the meal started!”

---

Note: Sorry, I forgot to update this chapter here when I did it on ff.net. Sorry! Another Christmas story coming in the next week or so. One that I will finish before posting so that it is on time!

---

The evening meal was a long and boring affair, requiring Elrond and Elros to be dressed up in stiff, itchy clothing that was quite inappropriate for the task of sitting still for several hours. Too sensitive to the cold to wear the customary tunics of young elves, they had been supplied with woollen vests and undergarments, thick shirts and leggings, and short robes that were unpleasantly heavy and to both boys’ mortification had frills.

Now the empty dishes of fish soup had been cleared and several large platters of bright red lobsters had been carried in. Unable to contain himself any longer, Elros squirmed in his seat and thrust his arm down the back of his neck to soothe an itch.

Closely resembling a statue, Elrond allowed his eyes to flick down the table to check that nobody was watching, then hissed urgently.

“Elros! You must not fidget!”

Elros pulled a particularly ugly face and partly to annoy his brother, partly to show that he could fuss if he wanted to, licked his finger and began running it around the rim of his wine glass.

Elrond flinched. The fact that the glass held apple juice rather than wine made no difference, and the high-pitched chiming noise was sure to disturb everyone.

“Stop!” Elrond clawed at his brother underneath the table and succeeded in spilling the drink into his brother’s lap. “Stop it!”

“Elrond!” Elros’ voice rose in outrage and he slammed the glass back onto the table. “You have made me all wet!”

People were turning to stare now and from the far end of the table the Queen was giving Gil-galad a rather pointed look. The lobster claw on his plate was being amazingly sprightly considering that it had been boiled, and the flowers in the vase nearest to him were missing their heads.

“It is your fault!” Elrond muttered quickly, hoping to absolve himself of blame before anyone could scold them. “If you...”

He was cut off by the Shipwright’s upheld hand, and a quick glance at the ancient elf’s face told him that he was most certainly not pleased.

“Ereinion Gil-galad!” Círdan hissed out of the corner of his mouth, fixing the offending lobster with a gaze of ice. “Elros! Elrond! For the love of Eru, behave!”

---

It was late in the night by now. At great length the formal meal and speech making had come to an end and Elrond and Elros had been sent upstairs to their beds, leaving Gil-galad, the Queen and Círdan behind to entertain the many guests and counsellors. Gil-galad looked as if he felt this was more than slightly unjust, but mercifully remained silent and contented himself by pressing a plate of particularly strange tasting liver canapés on the least favourite of his advisors.

The minstrels had started their music making by now, and a number of elves were venturing to dance.

“Come, Ereinion. We must lead by example!” the Queen floated to her son’s side and removed a tray of small biscuits spread with spiced fish from his hands. “It is one of the jigs of Doriath. Do you know it?”

“Of course.” There was a distinct note of hurt in the High King’s voice. “You taught me. Do you not remember?”

She did now that she thought about it, although she did her best not to dwell on thoughts of what could have been. A Midwinter celebration when her son had been but five years old, and she had taken his hands and taken him hopping and skipping around the room. He had been wearing a new red tunic, for it had been the first time he had been allowed to stay up so late, and he had been so proud. It had not occurred to her that he might hold on to the memory for so long.

“Of course I remember!” making light of the mistake, the Queen smiled brightly and held out her hands. “You did not tread on my toes once!”

Gil-galad laughed, strands of black hair falling over his eyes. “Adar did, always! Do you remember? And Fingolfin would cut in for the sake of your feet!”

The Queen looked sad suddenly, and the smile faded from Gil-galad’s face.

“Come, I shall lead!” seizing his mother’s hands, Gil-galad hurried to join the dancing just as the music resumed. Sometimes he forgot that for his mother the loss of his father was a much more recent grief.

---

It was past midnight when the young half-elven twins were woken by the creak of the door.

“Elrond! Elros!” Gil-galad hissed from the doorway, making rapid motions with his hands to indicate that they should proceed in a manner both fast and silent. “Come, it is time to sing.”

“I thought the celebrations were over.” Elros said loudly. “You sent us to bed.”

“The celebrations of the Noldor are over, yes.” Gil-galad spoke in a low voice, a smile playing on his lips. “But there are other elves in these Havens. The festivities of the Falathrim have not yet begun.”

He had been younger than Elrond when he had been sent to Círdan at the Havens for safekeeping. He had joined the Shipwright in festivities every year since then, but he had never forgotten his joy and amazement at the almost ethereal beauty of the sea elves as they gathered on the shore under silver lamps and sung of the sea.

“Will you not get into trouble?” Elrond slipped out from beneath the covers and dragged on his leggings and tunic over his sleep-shirt. “Did your counsellors say that you could go? You shall be tired tomorrow and they will be cross...”

The young half-elf had not yet realised the difference between his own capabilities and those of his full-blooded kin, and was apt to worry aloud in a manner that Gil-galad termed as nagging. Fortunately before he could reply with a suitably cutting retort, the Shipwright entered the room.

“I have said that he may come. It is a festival of my people, and it is important to me.” Círdan strode across the room to sit on the bed and help the twins dress. “I should like you all to come, and I think it would have been important to your father.”

That was enough for Elrond and Elros. They were out of bed and struggling to find vests and socks before Círdan could even explain what would happen.

“Go and get changed, Ereinion.” Círdan’s tossed Elros the tunic that he had found crumpled on the floor. “Should your tiredness tomorrow cause your counsellors to become cross, I shall be quite happy to come and explain the reason for your weariness.”

One of Elros’ socks arrived in his lap rather more quickly than the half-elf had thought it was possible, considering that he had left it on the other side of the room. Shrugging, he put this thought aside and concentrated on squirming his feet inside his boots without untying the laces.

---

“I do not like it.” Elrond whispered, fumbling under the tablecloth until he found Gil-galad’s hand. “It is too noisy.”

His breath caught on his words and soon he was sniffling.

“Oh,” Gil-galad stuck his head under the tablecloth to give the elfling an anxious look, “do not cry!”

“There are too many people.” Elrond whimpered and took a shuddering breath. “I am sorry.”

Seeing the child’s grey eyes brimful of tears, Gil-galad cast a quick look round to check that nobody important was watching, and crawled under the table too. It was calmer in the half-light under the tablecloth – the hustle and bustle outside reduced to an ever-changing collection of boots and shoes visible through the gap.

“Do not be sorry.” Gil-galad fumbled through his pockets in search of something to mop up the elfling’s tears and on finding nothing settled for a comradely grin. “I was scared too, the first time Círdan took me.”

“But you did not cry.” Elrond wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“No, I did not cry.” Gil-galad shook his head then grinned mischievously at Elrond. “But I would not let go of Círdan either. I did not let him set me down all night.”

“Oh.” Elrond peeped at Gil-galad from beneath his damp lashes and gave the young King a shy smile. “Did Círdan not mind?”

Gil-galad pursed his lips in thought and then shrugged with a smile. “He may have done.”

Elrond looked at him, eyes wide in surprise. He was scared of the gruff, plainspoken Shipwright and the thought of making him even a little bit cross was enough to leave him unable to speak.

“I would have cried and screamed if he had left me, even for a moment.” The High King grinned at the memory of the Shipwright’s frustration when he realised that he had to choose between a clinging elfling and a howling one. “I think he was scared of making me cry. He did not know how to soothe me.”

Elrond gave Gil-galad a doubtful look. He could not imagine a High King as an elfling even smaller and babyish than he was. Had he not known that kings never lied, he might have thought that Gil-galad was just trying to make him feel better. “If I come out, will you stay with me?”

“Yes.” Gil-galad smiled in relief and hurriedly backed out of their cramped refuge. There was not much space under the table for anyone with legs as long as his and he kept knocking his head against the underside of the table. At least he was no longer wearing his crown. His counsellors would not even try to understand why he had dented a priceless heirloom.

“You will not leave me though, will you?” Elrond asked anxiously, sticking his head out from under the table to give the room a long and worried look. “I will get lost.”

“Of course I will not.” The High King smiled reassuringly. “If I lose you then Naneth will probably roast me and serve me for breakfast.”

Elrond sucked in his breath in shock. “She would not!”

“Oh, I do not know,” he looked suitably worried for a moment then grinned as Elrond began to look as if he might cry. “Naneth loves meat with redcurrant sauce.”

Gil-galad held up the tablecloth to allow his young friend to crawl out. In the far corner of the room he could see the unmistakeable figure of the Shipwright leaning against a pillar and shooting glares at anyone that looked as if they were even thinking of asking him to join the dancing. In retrospect, perhaps Cirdan had found an armful of quivering elfling a useful excuse to avoid having to participate in the merriment. The shipwright had never had the most extroverted of personalities.

“Perhaps,” Elrond crawled out from under the table and got to his feet, almost immediately grabbing hold of the High King’s hand as hard as he could, and spoke a little doubtfully, “Perhaps Círdan would hold me too.”

Gil-galad grinned mischievously as he pulled Elrond through the dancing crowd. “I am sure that there would be nothing he would like more.”

---

There was a moment’s silence in which Elladan and Elrohir waited for their father to continue, and Elrond foolishly entertained hopes that his sons had fallen to sleep.

“Is that it, Ada.” Elrohir said, with an almost audible wrinkling of his nose.

“You were a bit... babyish, were you not, Ada?” Elladan struggled to find a suitably inoffensive word whilst still voicing his scorn.

“Aye,” Elrond stifled a grin, “I was very young and I was missing my Naneth and Adar badly.”

Both twins fell silent at this, having spent little more than a night or two away from their parents since their birth some seven years before. Even then they had had Glorfindel to stay with them, and on such occasions that their parents had abandoned them to the good humour of the elves of Imladris the long-suffering Balrog-slayer had never yet managed a whole night’s sleep in his own bed.

“I think I like our Midwinters better, Ada.” Elrohir said seriously at last. “I would miss you and Ammë too badly.”

“And Gil-galad does not sound fearsome at all.” Elladan added, obviously fiercely disappointed at this. Both twins were very taken with the last High King of the Noldor, and loved to be told stories about him.

“He yet had some growing to do,” Elrond said cheerfully – then on seeing both twins’ woebegone looks at seeing their hero turning into someone no more worthy of their admiration than Glorfindel added, “But he became fearsome in time. Already he was outstripping what Círdan could teach him in use of the spear.”

Both twins nodded in satisfaction. Elrond coughed in a rather unlikely manner. Thankfully both boys were settling down to sleep now, getting comfortable beneath the covers and wriggling far less than they had been just half an hour ago.

“But you like our Midwinters best, do you not, Ada?” Elladan said eagerly.

“Being with me and Elladan and Ammë,” Elrohir clarified. Although neither he nor Elladan could yet compare with Gil-galad in the heroism stakes, if given the choice he would rather spend his Midwinter with his family than the High King – and he would like to think that his father would do likewise.

“I have enjoyed almost all my Midwinters,” Elrond said slowly then swooped forward to grab both twins in a giant hug. “It matters only that I am with those that I love.”