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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There will be rain."

The prince glared suspiciously at the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---