Note: This is fanfiction and I own nothing.

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

“You are ready?”

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

He was nearly eleven after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ereinion?”

“No.” Ereinion said in a whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was best not to think of some things.

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

“Too far.” Ereinion said softly.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Ooosh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Círdan looked stricken.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will not!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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