This is, sadly enough, still not mine.

---

The tide had come in and gone out by now, leaving the coarse sand cold and hard as it retreated down the shore. Smooth black pebbles that had once glinted wet in the golden light of the setting sun were now drying to a dull grey that matched the sky.

There was a storm coming in, and the rising wind was sending thick black clouds across the horizon, blotting out the red orb of the sun, and hiding the pinks and golds of the sunset beneath a mask of grey. The sea, which had so recently been as smooth and still as one of the great lakes of the mainland, was being whipped by the wind and was rising in choppy protest. The shore was deserted, from the rocks that underlay the sheer cliffs that marked the most westerly point of the island to the very furthest expanses of the pale beach that curved around the bay that could be seen in this light. Those hunting cockles had returned to their homes, and even the hardened sailors had retreated to the warmth and light of the taverns.

Pinpricks of gold and orange light were flickering up from the shadow of the steep hillside over which the city was sprawled, as lanterns were lit and fires were kindled. Even the guiding beacon, situated high on the distant cliffs had been lit early tonight. It promised to be a harsh night and it was not unknown for ships to run aground on the jagged rocks that extended far from the headland.

The only hint of life left on the beach was a slender figure, perched with the calm gracefulness of a seabird on one of the craggy black boulders at the edge of the cove. The storm was so close by now that there was little colour left in the scene. White frothing waves were crashing against dark rocks, and too close to them for safety, a pale-faced boy dressed in black sat watching - one long leg swinging leisurely, and the other drawn up to his chest.

Salt spray was mingling with the first misting of rain, and while the threatening downpour had not yet started, tiny beads of moisture were gathering on the fine woollen cloth of his tunic and strands of dark hair were sticking to his ears and cheeks. His long dark lashes, already damp with salt tears, were gathering fine silver droplets of rain.

It was already late and he had been here too long. He had heard the news what, three hours ago now? It had been fully light in any case, and the bay had still been sunny and calm. He should not have run away, but there had been little choice at the time. The aching emptiness in his chest had been expanding as he had stood listening, and he had known that had he waited a moment longer it would have risen above the lump in his throat.

But the hollow feeling in his stomach had subsided now, being replaced with a heavy feeling inside that he did not want to understand. Finally rising, he slipped and scrambled his way across the sodden rocks and began a slow and deliberate walk across the sand.

---

The rain was falling harder now. Large droplets splashed down onto the cobbles and steep staircases of the town. The more distant sounds of the waves crashing on the shore were being drowned out by the drumming of the rain on thatched roofs, and the whipping of the wet flags in the storm.

He had started running when the storm had broken, just as he had reached the steps to the quay. Nobody was left in the streets by now, and all was unnaturally dark - the shutters bolted tightly across the windows of the taverns, a small protection against the rising wind. He could hear each breath now, mingling with the soft splashing of the soles of his boots on submerged cobbles. Blood was pounding in his ears in time with feet, each beat of his heart tightening the sharp pain in his side.

The first flash of lightening cut across the sky as he rounded the corner to the palace, a jagged white line shattering the dark of the sky. A grey cat streaked across the grey street, and a second later a great rumble of thunder cleaved the silence. Ducking involuntarily at the noise, the boy ran onwards, fast and fluid through the storm.

A second flash came, and this time there was barely time to wipe water from his eyes before the thunder came, shaking the town down to the depths of the isle. And then, in the breathless silence that awaited the next strike he was there. Leaping up steps three at a time, long legs making short work of the staircases, and racing through the dripping arches of the cloisters, barely remembering to halt before reaching the entranceway.

---

The door swung open with a clang, banging into the apple barrel in his haste, and the warmth and homeliness of the kitchens came streaming out into the grey of the storm. Someone had been baking pies earlier, and the warm scent of stewed apples, cinnamon and crisp sweet pastry made his mouth water in anticipation.

And there, sitting at the table, as he had known would be the case, was Cirdan the Shipwright. He was whittling a block of wood, pale shavings flitting downwards to the tabletop to land amidst the scraps of browning apple peel and dustings of flour. The ancient elf glanced up as he came in, weary pale eyes meeting proud dark ones.

There was nothing said. There was no need. Both knew what the news meant.

There was a lonely scrap of raw pastry on the table, and when it reached his mouth it tasted as sweetly-cinnamony as ever. Everything else would stay the same.

He was King now.

It was his burden. Nobody could protect him from this. Nobody could make it better.

He reached for a beaker, intending to pour some milk from the jug on the table, but when he had it grasped in his wet hand he changed his mind and fetched wine.

"Naneth will be waiting for me."

It was a fact, not a question. They would be in a silent circle around that table, with barely a candle to ease the gloom. They had been waiting too long already. For him to become of age. To take up his father's place. To become what he had been born to be.

"My apologies." He nodded his head in swift excuse at his leaving and turned, heading for the door. The wine had warmed his cheeks and fingers but he was still cold inside.

"Ereinion," Cirdan's voice was grave, but when Ereinion turned there was a sharp grin and a swift flash of towel as it was flung in his direction, "Wear a cloak in future."