The next item was not his at all, although it had been lent to Elrohir for a little time. Indeed it had never truly belonged to the one who lent it to the child, and valuable though it was, it had eventually been entrusted to Elrond, to ensure that it passed onwards.

The flute was small, at first glance suitable for a young child not older than a few dozen years, but on closer inspection perhaps not intended for one so young. It was made of silver, and was decorated with inlayed stars of mother-of-pearl, mithril and shining white opal. The body was decorated with etchings of trees and flowers and a very ancient and early form of script. It was a precious gift indeed, especially to a child too young to appreciate its significance. Encased in a slender case of worn blue leather embossed with silver and mithril stars, it had once been a childhood heirloom of a family which no longer lived in Middle-earth.

~*~

Elrohir raced through the woods back towards the house, his braids bouncing against the back of his neck as he leapt over logs and scrambled up the dusty reddish soil of the bank. He could hear his grandfather calling after him, Celeborn's deep voice clear through the trees, but he did not stop. He knew that he would not be followed for that would mean leaving Elladan alone with a sword, but he did not care because he did not ever want to look at his grandfather again. Celeborn had told him that he was special and important, and he had believed him, but it had been a lie. Brushing the dirt from his scabbed knees, Elrohir kicked out at the pale peeling bark of a silver birch and then winced in pain as the soft leather of his moccasins offered little protection against the impact.

He did like the training and worked hard because he enjoyed it, but sometimes he would just as rather curl up under a tree with a book as run around collecting beanbags. Warm tears began streaking down the elfling's cheeks and he swiped them away with the side of his arm, but they were soon replaced with more. Sometimes he wished that his Ada would be as proud of him for understanding what the visitors at the table were talking about as he seemed to be when he hit the centre in archery.

The younger twin stooped to pick up a stone, and flung it with all his strength into some red currant bushes. His anger overwhelmed his usual care and precision, and the stone landed with an inelegant crash amidst the sun- dappled leaves. A blackbird flew away to the sanctuary of an ash tree, screeching reproachfully at the child. Feeling an unpleasant flash of pleasure at the distress that he had caused the bird, Elrohir turned and continued his way up through the woodlands, kicking great clouds of dead leaves into the air with every disgruntled step.

One lazy afternoon, perched on the dry branches of one of the mighty oaks, he had been talking with his friends about what they would do when they would do when they were fully-grown. Some had wanted to be warriors, and some had wanted to be horse masters. One had wanted to heal and another had wanted to be an apprentice in the forge. Most wanted to follow their fathers. He would quite like to be a lore master like his Ada, for he enjoyed books and learning and he loved it when his father would take him onto his lap and explain what he was doing. He had made his own record book, modelled on the mighty tomes in the library, where he would record what had happened during the day. He thought he might like planning strategies and using words to gain support, rather than leading others into battle.

But even Ada had been a warrior once. He had fought at Dagorlad for the freedom of Middle-earth, and had been the herald of the High King. A long banner of blue and silver still hung down between two of the windows in his study, the stars shining red and gold in the evening light as the rich beams of the setting sun fell on them. All the stories in their book of tales featured elves that were brave and valiant, the ones that rode out bravely to defend their people- not those that stood behind them co- ordinating the assault. He and Elladan played with models of soldiers and riders, not scribes and healers.

Scowling, the younger twin stamped down heavily on a clump of red flowers, pressing their petals into a crumpled mess. It was not fair. Looking round to check that nobody was listening, Elrohir whispered all the bad words that he knew, internally glowing with guilty triumph.

One of the elves in the eldest training group - a youth of around thirty years - was to have an apprenticeship in the library come the autumn. Elrohir had watched him come in with his father and speak with the Keeper of the Library, and now he spent his free evenings learning how to care for the books and repair the bindings. It would be nice to be an apprentice in the library, but if had always been taken for granted that he and Elladan would prepare for initiation into the Guard once they finished their basic training. He supposed that, like lessons and dancing, it was one of those things that they had to do just because the Lord of Imladris was their Ada. His anger evaporating into self-pity, Elrohir dug his fists into his pockets and slunk miserably through the woodlands, sniffing back the last of his tears. Sometimes he did not like being the son of the Lord of Imladris so much.

~*~

Elladan's training master looked over his row of small charges, checking that they were all present and correct, and as tidy as such young elflings could manage. He could count ten small heads, each with hair neatly braided back from their face and plaits tied firmly with thin leather strips. Their newly washed faces were pink with the exercise and fresh air, and their eyes were bright and attentive. Each was wearing a neatly pressed training tunic, the dark green fabric hanging down smoothly to their knees, and their swords had been belted neatly around their waists. He shot a warning look at those small hands that had crept to the hilt of their weapons rather than hanging loosely at their sides, and nodded approvingly when the guilty fingers obeyed.

It was high time that some of his older pupils moved onto the next training group. Their tunics hung well above their grazed knees, and the rough dark green cloth had become faded from long hours in the sun and repeated washings. Coming autumn they should be donning new brown tunics, and lining up nervously under the command of a new master, but he had reservations about advancing one or two of them. All elflings had much to learn, but some seemed to resist absorbing the lessons that were presented to them again and again.

Sighing slightly, the experienced soldier glanced down at the worn earth, then looked up and nodded to his pupils with an encouraging smile. He had once been a captain of the Imladris Guard, but an arrow in the knee had put an end to his endeavours on the battlefield, and now he spent his days guiding those who would one day grow to succeed him. Years of practice had made him a shrewd judge of character, and he was sure even now that he could pick out those elflings who would become leaders and captains, and those that were destined for another role.

"Lead us on, Iorwë." He waved the small boy forwards and let his small troop of elflings trot past him before following at a more leisurely pace.

They passed amongst the shady trees to the largest of the training glades where the elflings from the other training group were already gathered in a neat half-circle around a tall elf with tightly braided silver hair. This was Ildruin, the chief of the training masters. Although he dealt mainly with the youngest of those in Imladris, it was rumoured that he often met with captains of the Guard as high as Glorfindel to discuss elves that had once been under his command. He was widely respected throughout Imladris, not least by the novices seeking entrance into the Imladris Guard. It was said that he had the final say over which of the young elves should move forwards, and if he wished he could veto even the most talented fencer or archer simply because he did not feel that they were ready for such responsibility. He was a kind elf, and endlessly patient with his tiny charges, and he always held a greeting and friendly smile for his pupils and ex-pupils alike.

Iorwë scuttled forwards, fearful of being late, and plopped down onto the grass beside the nearest elfling before remembering that he was supposed to be leading the others. One hand clamping shyly across his mouth, he crawled across the grass to guide the others into forming the other half of the circle, his eyes filling with anxious tears. Ildruin smiled reassuringly at the youngling, and shared an amused look with the training masters who had wandered over to each other and were conversing quietly. He took the youngest of the elflings in training, and consequently knew all the children and their strengths and weaknesses before they even progressed to the use of weapons. He was fond of all elflings in his care, and treasured each one in their own way. He had taught many, many children over the years and he was yet to come across any two alike.

"Are we all present?" Ildruin turned around; surveying the eager upturned faces below him, and glanced at the two masters. "There are nineteen?"

The younger training master shook his head and stepped forwards quickly, speaking up before any of his trainees could come up with some preposterous rumour. Brushing his hands down the light grey linen of his tunic, he looked around at the surrounding bushes hoping to catch sight of the elfling that he sought, before turning to Ildruin.

"No, we are missing Elrohir." The blue eyes quickly travelled over the curious expressions of the elflings until he fixed on a young face identical to the one he sought. "Is he not well, Elladan?"

Looking surprised and slightly worried, Elladan rose to his feet, looking around him as if hoping to catch some glimpse of his brother that the master had missed. "No, hîr. He left before me. I was late."

The last comment was mumbled, hoping that by some chance Ildruin would happen to miss the admission, although the sharp ears had never yet failed to catch any elfling that dared whisper whilst he was speaking. His own training master had already scolded him for his mistake, and he did not need more harsh words to understand that he had done wrong. It had been Celeborn's fault anyway. The chief training master's silver brows rose thoughtfully, but he wisely made no comment.

"Thank you, Elladan." The elf nodded his thanks at the elder twin, and Elladan sat down gratefully. Turning to Ildruin he nodded, indicating that he should proceed. "Elrohir must be indisposed. We shall start without him."

It was a pity that Elrohir had chosen today of all days to be late. He would have been pleased to hear of what Ildruin would speak, and he would be mortified when he realised that he had been missed. The younger twin hated to be noticed in a negative light, and of all the elflings in his care he had not expected Elrohir to let the group down.

"Very well." Ildruin stepped back, and sat down at the head of the circle between Iorwë and Andúnë - a position he favoured since it allowed him to see the faces of all the listening children. The grass was worn by this time in the season, rubbed away where small feet had been practising their drills and playing chase, or plucked and rolled into small missiles by bored children. However, for the most part it was still thick and green, and made a fairly comfy seat. Raising his voice slightly to be heard clearly over the cheerful shouts and laughter from elsewhere in the woods, he smiled warmly at the little group of elflings. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Master Ildruin." The children chorused together, every syllable clearly enunciated and spoken with a rhythm that told any listeners that it was a common phrase, learned by rote early in childhood. Admirably suppressing his grin, Ildruin waited until every eye was upon him before continuing. It was not unknown for soldiers of the Guard to chorus the familiar greeting out of habit even when greeted informally.

"The summer training session is drawing to an end, and soon some of you will be moving on to new masters and new challenges. The rest of you will begin learning many new skills and techniques, and I am sure that you will all do well and welcome newcomers into the group."

There was a small murmur of agreement, and Ildruin smiled encouragingly at the group. In truth he worried about those younglings who would be promoted into this particular group. It was ruled to a great extent by some of the older elflings whose skills were still somewhat lacking, and he doubted that they would greet the newest six-year-olds kindly.

"Thank you. However before we move on, we have one last excitement to look forwards to together. Our visitors from Lorien have donated a bow, as a prize for the most deserving elfling." The elf paused for a moment to allow the excited fidgeting and impatient glances to die down before continuing. "We have decided that we shall have a small contest in archery on the day of our picnic. The bow shall go to the elfling who performs most admirably in the displays. Your masters and I have discussed this, and have decided that although we will not account for age, a special ribbon should be given to the one of you that has shown the greatest effort and progress throughout the summer. Are there any questions?"

A forest of thin arms shot up eagerly, waving in the air as their owners bounced impatiently, trying to attract Ildruin's attention. Grinning at the boys' enthusiasm, the training master leant forwards, and nodded at a boy who looked as if must surely burst if he had to wait any longer.

"Avahir?"

~*~

Elrohir slunk silently through the southern halls of Imladris, gripping his bow and quiver of arrows tightly. He was an honest child, and his face held a distinctly guilty look as he crept into a small alcove along one of the less-travelled passageways. He had not meant to skip training today, but somehow he had ended up wandering the halls instead of hurrying down to stand in line with his friends. He had got changed into a fresh tunic and tidied his hair just as his Ammë had instructed but then, wishing to avoid any chance of meeting his grandfather, he had decided to cut through the hallways before taking the wide paved path that led down past the training glades. But somehow he had got distracted behind the statues in the courtyard, watching the arrival of a small group of elves dressed in cloaks of sea-green, and by the time he had torn his eyes from the unfamiliar coppery-coloured armour the sun was rather higher in the sky than he had expected.

He had thought of running down to the training ground and apologising but he was sure to be publicly reprimanded, and there was nothing that he hated more. It would be better perhaps to miss the whole session, and hope that some plausible reason would arise before the next day. Such reasons did not often choose to arise at his convenience, and Elrohir felt more than a little uncomfortable, for it would involve lying to those that trusted him, but he managed to justify it to himself since people whom he had trusted had lied to him too. He did not feel like being scolded today anyway, for he was sure that he would begin crying in front of the whole group.

Scowling at the thought, Elrohir set his bow down on the polished wooden bench that ran along the back of the alcove, and clambered up to huddle in the corner of the seat under the watchful eye of the statue that stood silently behind him. Few elves seemed to look into this small sanctuary as they passed, and of those that did, most were too busy to notice the child. Half-elf though he was, Elrohir could pass notice well enough if he wished to.

Only a small patch of corridor was visible from his perch, and in the silence it felt almost as if he was watching time pass. The sun sent slanting rays behind the windows behind him, creating bright islands of light on the shadowy floor, and he could watch the shadow of a creeper leaf as it brushed languidly against the glass in the faint breeze. Occasionally people would pass him by, carrying papers or sacks of corn, but for the most part he was alone.

He could faintly hear a murmur of voices from the nearby council chambers, mingling with the distant notes of a haunting tune. If he tilted his head, he could just hear the sound of sweet voices raised in song. He loved singing, and he was sure that even if he could only sit and listen awhile the hurtful winded feeling in his chest would ease. Singing had always made him feel better when he had woken from a bad dream, or the shadows of his bedchamber had seemed especially dark and menacing.

Tired at last of his solitary hiding place, Elrohir gathered up his bow and arrows and set off down the corridor in search of the source of the music.

~*~

It was a blazing hot afternoon and the sunlight was glaring off the river with blinding brightness. The lagoon was quiet except for the gentle rushing of the small waterfall and the soft voices of the elflings sitting on the shingle beach at the edge of the water. An older elf stood knee deep in the shallow waters at the edge of the pool, eyes fixed on the progress of a small figure hanging from a rough ledge in the overhanging cliff.

Sucking in his lower lip as he concentrated, Elladan suddenly let go of the rock-face and lunged upwards to wedge his hand in a crack in the cliff, simultaneously swinging up his leg to balance on the ledge that he had been holding onto moments before. Heart pumping violently, he flattened himself against the cool rock, and looked down at the small line of his friends below him before returning his focus to a tiny red flower that dangled from the moss that grew on a tiny cleft at eye level.

"Good." The training master called encouragingly, pulling off his hot itching tunic and flinging it onto a clump of heather as he kept a close eye on the child's handholds.

Each summer the training groups could be found down in this gorge, climbing up the sheer limestone walls and yelling with triumph as they emerged onto the banks. The river pooled deep and blue under the overhanging cliff, minimising injury to anyone that should slip, and the rock was well worn by the winter torrents and had many easy hand and footholds. It was ideal for such training, and once the lesson was over the boys enjoyed relieving their pent-up emotions by splashing and whooping as they leapt into the water.

Elladan tightened his grip on the rock, and looked upwards, surveying the rock face for possible holding places. The sun was hot on his bare back now that he had cleared the shadow of the opposite side of the gorge, and he had to squint from the brightness of the sun on the pale rock. If he could just reach that next crack. . .

"Excellent!"

Gasping for breath, Elladan fumbled for a foothold and pushed upwards, ignoring the warm blood trickling down from his grazed knee. He was nearly at the top now, only one more hold. . .

"Ye. . .yes!" The training master grinned as Elladan hauled himself up onto the dry grass and blooming purple heather and ran lightly down the hillside to sit down on the warm shingle beside his friend. "Well done."

Elladan smiled back at him and knelt down at the river's edge to gulp a few mouthfuls of water from his cupped hands before resuming his place and listening to the discussion of his successes and mistakes. Soon the next boy was called forward to take his turn and feeling elated, Elladan sat back and watched intently, replaying every move in his head as the other boy made slow and painful progress up the overhang.

However, his attention was perhaps not as complete today as it might have been. He had far too much to think about.

He normally enjoyed competitions and contests, even when he did not come first, but this one would be different. He had never been beaten by his brother before, and definitely not publicly, in front of everyone. His Ada and Ammë would go on and on about how proud they were of him for trying so hard, as if they did not know that that was even more shameful than being scolded or reprimanded. It would be better not to try than have everyone pity him for trying so hard and not getting anywhere.

Scowling, Elladan kicked out angrily at the fine gravel at the water's edge, sending the tiny stones flying. It was not fair.

~*~

Elrohir ran lightly down the corridor, forgetting that he should be in training in his eagerness to hear the music. He was not sure if he had been here before - at least not often. It must be the western wing of the refuge where many of the elves had their private chambers, for the afternoon sun was visible through the tall arched windows at the end of the hallway. Creeping forwards silently, the younger twin paused at an open archway and peered around the entwined carved vines into the room.

It was a bright sunny chamber, and a number of elves were gathered in a loose arc around one who was waving a thin stick in the air. Some were singing, but others plucked harps or held chimes, horns or lutes. The music the minstrels made was beautiful, especially to one who had not yet often been to the Hall of Fire, and Elrohir sat down in the shadow of a bench carved with birds and flowers and listened.

After what seemed like a cruelly short time, the music died down and before the elfling could stir himself, the players began drifting out of the room talking and laughing amongst themselves. Unnoticed, Elrohir shrank back into the shadows, eyeing the instruments enviously. He could sing of course, as all elves could. The family would often gather around the fire in the evening and sing as their father played the harp. They had learnt many of the old lays and songs that way, but although people often commented on his sweet voice, he had never tried playing an instrument. Perhaps he would like to be apprenticed to a minstrel.

"Elrohir." Erestor's surprised and disapproving voice cut across his thoughts. "Did your father send you?"

The younger twin jumped, and scrambled guiltily to his feet, looking up nervously at the counsellor. At least it was not Glorfindel, who would know immediately that he should be in training, but where the Balrog-slayer might understand or even be persuaded to generate a suitable excuse, Erestor could be guaranteed to report his deceit.

"Do you have a message?" Erestor persisted, raising a hand to check that his braids were in order. One never knew when you might be unexpectedly called to council.

Elrohir remained silent, but shook his head, staring bashfully at the floor. The grey paving was adorned with engraved vines and flowers around the edges of the hallway, and tracing a toe around a tendril of honeysuckle suddenly seemed like a very good idea.

Erestor looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, his brow furrowing in consternation. Elrohir had always been a most obedient child, but he could think of no reason why the child should be here. "Then should you not be in training?"

The child's cheeks flushed red, and he wound his fingers into a tangled knot. This seemed to create a work of art worthy of deep consideration, for the grey eyes did not rise again. "Yes, Erestor."

The young counsellor looked around the hallway with a hint of desperation, hoping to find anybody who would remove the responsibility of the child from him. Amazingly, the busy hallway seemed to be completely empty save for a lone leaf being blown gently across the stone floors. It had not been that way when he had tripped over the basket of eggs. Reminding himself that he had wished for some time to get to know the twins, Erestor smiled comfortingly at the child and stated reasonably. "But you are not in training."

Elrohir shook his head again, and Erestor was sure that he could see tears forming under the dark lashes. "No, Erestor."

The inexperienced counsellor sighed, wondering what should be done in such circumstances. By rights the child should be marched down to his lesson and soundly scolded for his lateness, but he had a longstanding sympathy with any elfling that was less than fond of the basic training. His childhood memories were not of sunny days and picnics and games in the woods and meadows.

"Why do you not walk with me?" Erestor spoke gently and held out a hand to the boy, and was strangely gratified when the small hand curled into his. Lowering his voice slightly as they crossed the hall, he queried, "Do your Ada and Ammë know that you are not in training?"

The dark head was shaken again, conveniently allowing large amounts of hair to fall over the flaming face. When Elrohir spoke his voice was barely a whisper and filled with shame. "No, Erestor."

"Ah." The counsellor looked into the distance for a moment, searching for inspiration, then led the child to one of the broad window-ledges at the end of the hallway where he sat down underneath the high window. The sun behind them cast long shadows of the pair across the deserted hallway, emphasising the difference in height and contrasting the youthful profile with Erestor's more serious one. "So, did you enjoy our recital?"

That seemed to meet with the child's approval, for Elrohir broke into an enthusiastic beam and he nodded emphatically as he spoke. "Oh yes, Erestor."

Erestor smiled, losing the dour expression that he seemed to consider it necessary to wear most of the time, and suddenly appeared much younger. "Have you never seen the minstrels practice before?"

"No." Elrohir sat down beside the counsellor, and drew his hair back behind his ear to look more closely at his companion. "Only in the Hall of Fire."

The child's grey eyes flickered momentarily over the flute in Erestor's hand, and the high-pitched voice rose inquisitively. "Are you really a minstrel, Erestor? Ada said that you were a counsellor."

It had never occurred to him before now that Erestor would have any other interests apart from having boring meetings with his Ada. Glorfindel had always been there, sharing meals, telling jokes, and looking after them for as long as he could remember, but Erestor had only been a counsellor for a few years. He had never seen Erestor play a game, go swimming or stretch out on a bed with a book, and he had always assumed that that had meant that he did not do these things.

"Oh." Erestor smiled kindly at the child's puzzlement and patted the silver instrument fondly. "No, I am a counsellor as your Ada said. But sometimes I like to play my flute, and the minstrels are so kind as to allow me to join them."

"Oh." Elrohir licked his lips as he thought. "So you can play music even though you are not a minstrel?"

"Not so very well," Erestor admitted, "but I enjoy it, and I find it peaceful after the day's business. Your Ada has his harp, does he not?"

Elrohir nodded earnestly, thinking back of the beautiful tunes that his father created, then looked pleadingly at the counsellor. "Can. . . may I try, Erestor? Please?"

Erestor pursed his lips in thought, his resolve melting under the child's anxious look. It distressed him to have to hand over such a precious instrument to a sticky fingered child, but it looked as if it meant the world to this particular elfling.

"I do not see why not." Erestor smiled encouragingly at the child and raised the flute to his lips. "You must play like this. . ."

Elrohir could barely contain his excitement as Erestor blew a soft note, and then handed the flute carefully to him, showing him how he should hold it. However, to his disappointment, even his most careful efforts led to nothing more than a series of loud and ear- splitting shrieks.

"I am no good."

Elrohir's face was so woebegone as he returned the precious flute that Erestor's heart melted for him in spite of the indignant glares the noise had earned the pair of them. The hall had miraculously suddenly filled with elves all shapes and sizes.

"Oh no, I am sure that you will do quite well." The counsellor reassured him, venturing to give the thin arm a gentle squeeze. The child's mother and father were both talented in music making, so he suspected that the elfling would not lack in ability when his turn came. "I expect that you are just a little small."

"Oh." Elrohir said in a downcast little voice, smiling bravely to show that he did not care. He was almost always too small to manage the things that he badly wanted to do. Although his Ada would often take the heavy books down for him, and his Ammë would help him manage the hoe and watering can, it was not the same as being able to do it for yourself.

"But," Erestor swallowed his last reservations at the dismay in Elrohir's voice, got to his feet and offered his hand to the child, "In my room I have another flute, one that was given to me when I was little older than you are now. Your fingers will find that easier to manage."

The younger twin was up in an instant, tugging impatiently on Erestor's hand as they headed towards the door.

~*~

"Ada! Ada!" Elrohir sped along the terrace, waving a thin leather pouch in one hand, and dragging a rather embarrassed looking Erestor with the other. The counsellor needed only take one pace for every three of the boy's, but he still had to run to keep up with the child.

Elrohir raised the pouch proudly above his head, and waved it for attention as his voice rose shrilly. "Ada!"

"My pardon," Elrond murmured to the others around the table and set down the curling-edged maps that he had been perusing. The meeting had not yet finished, and his son must have raced all the way up from the training grounds to arrive this early, but he felt that he deserved some time. Although Elrohir demanded attention much less frequently than his brother, when he did decide that he wanted it, he was far more difficult to distract.

"My son?" The Lord of Imladris pushed back his chair and stood up, spreading out his arms in an expanse of deep red velvet, ready to catch his son as the boy leapt at him with a joyful yell. The younger twin's face was alight with excitement, his hair falling messily over bright eyes and a delighted smile. Grinning at his son's obvious happiness, Elrond nodded at Erestor, and swept his child into his arms.

"Ada! Ada!" Elrohir gasped breathlessly as his father hugged him closely and spun him around, holding him safely with a broad arm across his back. "Look!"

The half-elf tried to squint through a few loose strands of hair at whatever object Elrohir was waving excitedly above his head, but did not recognise it until the child loosened his arms from around his neck, and brought the pouch down to eye level. Elrond realised what it must be the moment he saw the silver insignia embossed on the soft leather, but did not speak until he saw the silver instrument being tipped out carefully into Elrohir's cupped hand.

"Is that. . ." Elrond raised his eyebrows questioningly and looked over Elrohir's head at his advisor, who was now standing stiffly a few feet away, still dressed in the pale shirt and deep green tunic that he favoured for his free time. Even his dark hair seemed a little less carefully braided, and was missing the circlet that he usually wore on official duty.

Erestor nodded, flushing slightly, then smiled a little as Elrohir's face broke into a smile of pure excitement as he admired the instrument, his eyelashes very dark in his serious face. "I am sure that he will take good care of it."

Elrond's confirmation that he would make sure that his son did so was cut across by Elrohir's impassioned exclamation, "I will! I will! I promise I will, Erestor!"

The Lord of Imladris and his counsellor exchanged grins, and Elrond reached up to stroke his son's hair. "I am sure that you will. Have you asked Erestor to show you how to clean it?"

Elrohir gave his father a slight scornful look then looked around the large shoulder to smile at Erestor with a slightly conspiratorial air. "Of course, Ada! And he showed me how to play three different notes. I shall practice them, and then he shall teach me to play a tune!"

Erestor shuffled slightly and muttered something about his being willing to do so if Elrond and Celebrian wished him to do so, and if no better teacher could be found. Seeing the way that his counsellor's eyes had fallen to the ground, and the uncomfortable way that the well-polished boots were toeing the edge of the steps, Elrond smiled reassuringly.

"We would be most grateful, if you would be so kind." He spoke for himself only, but he was sure that his wife would agree with him. Celebrian cared deeply for all the elves in Imladris, and spent much time protecting the timid young counsellor from the more boisterous aspects of her husband and Glorfindel's characters.

"Can I?" Elrohir's eyes widened with excitement, and he gave his father a strangling hug as he buried his face into the soft cloth of the formal robes. "Thank you."

Elrond smiled at his son, then looked gratefully at Erestor. He had never thought of introducing his sons to music so early, for it had not been until his twenty-third begetting day that he was given his first harp, and in truth he had not really realised that the instruments could be made into such small sizes. Back in the misty memories of his childhood there were golden chiming bells and silver whistles and little wooden clappers, but nothing so fine as this. He was glad that he did not know the actual value of the trinket, because he was sure that if he did, he would ensure that it was put away until his son had grown too old to use it. From the expression on Elrohir's face it seemed that this was something that he should have thought of far earlier. Even as a tiny elfling, Elrohir had loved listening to music and singing along to the tunes at the festivals, even when he had not known the lyrics, and the prospect of being able to make such music himself had filled him with joy.

"You must be sure to listen to whatever Erestor says." Elrond said gently, adding a slight tone of warning to his words. "And you will have to practice regularly. If you start, you may not stop until you understand what you are giving up."

"I shall practice every single day." Elrohir smiled happily, if absently, as he made plans in his mind. His flute was not like his sword - practising would be so much fun. There were so many notes and tunes to be learned, and each could make people feel different things. "Look what Erestor taught me today!"

The elfling tugged gently on the pale blue cuff of his father's shirt and the moment that he was put down, bounced excitedly and put the instrument to his lips. Standing with his legs wide apart, he frowned a little in concentration, and took a deep breath.

"There is this note. . ." Elrohir blew gently, producing a fairly accurate copy of what the chief counsellor had shown him. He lowered the flute and looked seriously at his father. "It should not sound exactly like that, but Erestor said that with practice it would come."

"Ah." Elrond nodded equally seriously, and tried to hide his mirth from his son. There was an all too familiar snort from the table behind him that indicated that Glorfindel had not been quite as successful in this. Fortunately Elrohir seemed not to hear this in his preoccupation with getting the right fingering, although Erestor's face seemed to fall.

"And then. . ." Elrohir lifted the flute to his lips again and mumbled over the metal as he checked that his fingers covered the holes, "there is. . . Ammë!"

Elrohir's voice rose shrilly as he spied his mother coming up the steps, and he was away in a flash of green tunic, the silver flute sparkling in his hand. "Ammë! Ammë!"

As he turned, he caught sight of the Lord and Lady of Lorien sitting at the table, still perusing the documents that they had been discussing. He stared at Celeborn for a moment then, blinking away some dust that had caught in his eye, continued his headlong flight to the garden.

As the elfling shot past him, Celeborn furrowed his brow and gave his wife a questioning look. Just yesterday he was sure that Elrohir would have scurried shyly across to the table to crawl into his lap, and explain all about the flute in his quiet and careful tones. This afternoon too, he had been behaving strangely too, for the child had run off instead of joining in with the game. Although Elrohir did not appear upset, there was obviously something deeply wrong.

Galadriel smiled gently at her husband, and softly stroked his hand as it lay amidst the papers and maps on the table.

"All shall be well." His wife's voice sounded softly in his head, and from years of familiarity he had difficulty in discerning whether the words were whispered in thoughts or speech. "We shall talk later."

Celeborn nodded thoughtfully then smiled as he watched his daughter hurry up a few more steps, and come to a halt, her white skirts flapping around her ankles as she waited for her son to reach her.

"Look, Ammë." Elrohir leapt down the final three steps, his arms outstretched as if ready to fly, and landed with a skid as his moccasins slipped on the dry dusty stonework. "Erestor lent me a flute - a special one that he was given long ago. He said that he would teach me to play it! I already know three notes. Listen!"

As Celebrian deciphered the jumbled rush of words, her son leapt from foot to foot before her, beaming up at his mother's face, awaiting her approval. As the silence continued, Elrohir added pleadingly. "Ada said that I could. . ."

"Oh, of course you may!" Celebrian bent down to kiss her son's upturned cheek and tucked some of the loose strands of hair back behind his ear. Her eyes lingered on the silver flute and the inlays of mother of pearl and mithril, and she looked up quizzically at her husband. "Is that. . ."

Elrond and Erestor both nodded simultaneously, Elrond adding, "He has promised to look after it well."

Celebrian nodded and smiled down at her son, her voice as warm as the expression in her eyes. "I am sure that you shall. May it bring you much joy."

"It will." Elrohir said excitedly, slipping a hand into his mother's and starting up the steps at a more modest pace. "Erestor said that by next year. . ."

As Celeborn and Galadriel watched their daughter making her way up the steps, slowing her pace to suit the shorter legs of her son, they looked at each other - Galadriel's blue eyes meeting the greyer shades of those of her husband - and smiled.

"I have not seen her so happy." Galadriel's voice was soft and low, meant only for him.

Celeborn made no reply, but moved his hand to cover that of his wife. He could feel the icy cold of an invisible ring, and on the next finger the warm golden band that signified their marriage. Smiling a little sadly, he closed his larger hand snugly around his wife's, helping to warm the slender threads of mithril.