It was cold and grey down on the shore tonight, and the harsh wind that cut across the darkening sea was whipping the waves into a pale froth. The air was damp with spitting rain and salt spray, and the sand passing beneath Ereinion’s running feet was almost a blur in the fading light.

He did not know how long he had been running now, aching feet thudding against hard wet sand and breaths coming in painful gasps. The hems of his leggings were heavy and rough with gathered sand and the wind was whipping his hair across his face, mingling dark strands with salt tears and mucus.

“Nana!” Ereinion’s voice came out as a thin and lonely wail, answered only by a seagull circling far overhead – a white speck against the dark sky. He had known that there was no point in calling.

He had fallen once or twice and his hands and knees were wet and sore and covered in clinging sand. One of his socks had come off somewhere along the way and the other flapped damply with each step.

This would be the kind of thing that his old nanny had always declared ruined a good pair of socks - along with pushing his toes through the little holes so they could see out, turning them into balls for winter play, and slipping and sliding across the dining room floor. Sand was gathering in the sock’s loose toe, and it would not be long before this one too was abandoned to the incoming tide.

He should probably not lose it. Naneth had always told him that it was wrong to waste things. He had not meant to drop the other one, but this would be his fault.

Halting rather suddenly, Ereinion hopped for three steps to pull up his lone sock and looked back for a moment at the long smooth curve of the shore behind him. The white tipped waves had washed away most of his footprints by now, but there was still a short trail of shadowed marks – alternating between soft scuffs and full footprints with toes.

The craggy cliff faces were shrouded in shadow and the windswept gorse and heather high on the cliff tops was only a silhouette against the deepening blue-grey of the sky. Behind some drifting clouds, Ereinion could make out a faint silvery crescent of moon, and although the stars were not yet out it would not be long before they were kindled.

He would have to stop soon and rest a little while before continuing at daybreak. He could catch fish from a rock pool, and even if salt water was not his most favoured of beverages, it would do for a night. There was bound to be a cave somewhere where he could gather dry wood and light a fire, and a nice long sleep would soothe his aching limbs.

But as Ereinion halted and scanned the boulders and crevices at the base of the cliffs for a likely hidey-hole, another far less welcome silhouette appeared around the point of the headland. For a moment the pair stood still, watching each other closely, then the crash of a particularly big wave broke the moment. Choking back fresh tears, Ereinion turned away from the shipwright’s bellow and bolted along the shore.

But despite his running and the shipwright’s walking, he did not seem to be gaining any ground. In fact Círdan seemed to be coming steadily closer with every over-the-shoulder glance that Ereinion dared snatch. Starting to sob in anger and frustration, Ereinion struggled on, stumbling over rocks and bits of driftwood, and doing his best to put off the inevitable scolding for as long as possible.

- - -

“Ereinion,” Círdan clapped a hand down onto the child’s shoulder, and then, on feeling the small body start to quiver, knelt down and added hastily, “I am not angry.”

Snivelling, Ereinion consented to being pulled closer. Círdan’s hand felt warm and firm against his shoulder and although he knew it was merely to stop him breaking away, it was comforting nonetheless.

“What were you doing, Ereinion?” The shipwright’s eyes met Ereinion’s for a moment.

He had been telling the truth when he had said that he was not angry, Ereinion knew. He merely sounded old and weary, and very tired of small boys that were neither welcome nor wanted to stay.

“Running,” Ereinion mumbled. It felt cold now with the wind coming in off the sea, and although he wrapped his arms around himself as tightly as he could, he could not stop shivering.

Círdan raised an eyebrow.

“I saw a map.” Ereinion stuttered miserably through his chattering teeth. “I thought that if I kept running…”

The Shipwright sighed and drew a corner of his cloak around the child. The sand was damp through his leggings, but now did not seem the time to move. “It is a very long way home, Ereinion.”

Ereinion snuffled and burrowed deeper into the cloak. It was made of a coarse wool, and was very itchy, but it was warm.

“I know I will not get there in one day, Círdan.”

Masked by the coarse hair of his beard, the corner of Círdan’s mouth twitched. The young prince had evidently not yet learnt to keep his scorn at another’s intellect from his voice.

“I am heading along the coast,” Ereinion explained quietly, “I shall continue northwards to the Firth of Drengist at which point I shall head inland.”

The child fell silent and Círdan knew not what to say. He would have to tell the boy of the unfeasibility of his plans, or such episodes would be repeated. But to do so would be cruel. He could feel Ereinion’s hope and expectation. The boy truly believed that this was possible.

Fingon had gone to great lengths indeed to protect his small son from the horrors of the land.

“It will take many days.” Círdan eyed his charge’s eager face and looked out to sea for inspiration. Then, slowly and carefully he traced the outline of the coastline into the hard sand at the water’s edge. Interested in spite of himself, Ereinion leant forwards, tugging the cloak from Círdan’s left shoulder as he did so.

“This is my home,” Círdan placed a small white spiral shell down onto the sand and reached for a gleaming black pebble, “And this is yours.”

Ereinion nodded and pointed at the map, substituting a tiny pink shell for the pebble. His Naneth had liked shells like that.

“Here, this is where I shall head inland. I may pass though Cirith Ninniach, then I need not climb the mountains alone.” He gave Círdan a warning look. “I know that I will not be able to pass over the mountains of Ered Lómin in winter.”

The shipwright nodded slowly. The young prince’s knowledge of the land was apparently better than Andir had thought, and rather more worryingly this escape had been planned.

Watching him closely, Ereinion allowed a glimmer of hope to flicker in his heart. Maybe he had managed to impress Círdan sufficiently that he would be allowed to continue on his venture. He would be able to catch small fish and crabs from the rock pools and later, as the weather grew warmer there might be blueberries on the mountain slopes.

“Where am I now?” Ereinion asked eagerly, dropping down onto his knees and crawling over the map to try and identify where he was from the profile of the coastline. “Here?”

Círdan shook his head, almost feeling pity for the child. Although Ereinion may have learnt his map by heart, he yet knew not of the scale of this landscape, or the tiny part he played in it.

“No, that is many days sailing hence, and that with good wind.” He placed a gnarled finger on the map, touching the white shell. “We are here.”

Ereinion looked at the map, then turned to his guardian with confusion in his eyes. “But that is where I started.”

“Aye,” Círdan nodded, “It will be a long road.”

Ereinion scowled and drilled his soggy sock further into the wet sand.

“You are lying!” Although his voice was loud, it lacked conviction, and was petulant rather than angry. “I have travelled some distance.”

The Shipwright looked at him sternly for a minute or two. The prince’s damp face had gone very pink, but he did not feel that it was due to fury.

“Aye, of course you have,” he brushed a few grains of sand from the edge of the indentation he had made earlier and spoke kindly, “I dare say that you might be here.”

This time Ereinion made no effort to even slow the tears from falling, and did not protest as Círdan hoisted him into his arms, tucked him into a fold of his cloak and wrapped a warm hand around his wet little toes. He sobbed on and off during the long walk home, until at last, his face burrowed against Círdan’s shoulder, he fell asleep.

- - -

“I do not think that Ereinion should start lessons for some while yet,” Círdan finished stoking the fire and turned to Ranlhach for confirmation, “It will not harm him to wait until he has settled.”

“But it might harm him if you do not wait?” Ranlhach took a sip of hot tea and finding it still rather too warm, placed it back on the windowsill.

Círdan grunted and sank back into his chair, picking up his own mug and warming his hands. It was warm in his study, and with his paperwork for the day finished, Ranlhach was a welcome visitor. Not only was it pleasant to talk to an adult instead of a child for a little while, there were decisions that he did not wish to make alone.

After a minute of silence, Ranlhach ventured further, “There is a reason for this?”

Círdan took a long draught of tea and set down his mug on top of some papers, shifting aside an open book to make room.

“Aye,” he paused and grimaced for a moment, phrasing the thoughts he wished to say, “He is very unhappy, Ranlhach. He will need a while to come accustomed to our way of things.”

“And you do not think the routine of lessons will reassure him?” Ranlhach probed gently. It would take quite some while for the elfling to settle, and somehow he could not see Círdan finding the time to entertain him in the meantime. At the very least, lessons would keep the child out from underfoot for part of the day.

There was a long pause, during which time the shipwright drummed his fingertips against the warm earthenware mug, and eventually he spoke. “Not whilst he is unable to do them.”

“Then you have made your decision.” Ranlhach picked up his mug once more, and catching Círdan’s exasperated expression laughed. “The elfling is in your care, my friend! I cannot make these choices for you!”

- - -

It was still dark when Ereinion woke, and the fire was still burning in the grate, although the face of the clock had turned well into the stars. The house was very still, and although it was not silent, Ereinion felt rather alone. The wind was howling outside, but muffled behind the deep red curtains it sounded exciting rather than worrying. The fire was crackling in a friendly enough manner, and occasionally a log would shift position with a little shower of sparks.

Sitting up slowly, Ereinion blinked sleepily as he peered around the room. He was in Círdan’s sitting room once more, although he could not remember being brought here. Someone had placed him on the little nest of cushions he had made the previous evening and he must have been asleep very deeply and for quite some time as his mouth was dry and he felt very warm. He was hungry too, and must have missed dinner, but there was a tray on the bench at the other side of the room that merited investigation.

Tipping himself and several cushions onto the rug, Ereinion got to his feet and moved unsteadily across the room. He was still only wearing one sock, and that was rather damp. Wrinkling his nose, Ereinion stepped on the flapping woollen toe to pull it off and left it in a soggy heap in the middle of the rug. There was still a coating of wet sand across his heel and toes, but if he rubbed at it with the cool smooth skin of his dry foot then it came off in a mixture of damp and dry grains. Satisfied at last, Ereinion scampered across the cold wooden floor and reached eagerly for the tray.

There was bread and slices of cheese and ham, a large ripe pear and – enough to convince him that the meal was meant for him – a tall glass of milk. Smiling at last, Ereinion retreated to the rug in front of the fire and lay down, alternating between sipping his milk, nibbling bits of cheese and watching the flames dance over the logs. Even when the tray was empty and all remaining dribbles of pear juice had been licked from his hands and arms, Ereinion was quite contented to remain sprawled at the fireside.

He had forgotten to tidy away his soldiers earlier, and many were still standing dutifully - awaiting his return, the firelight making the silver highlights on their blue painted tunics sparkle. A few though had fallen during the afternoon, and were lolling on the ground as if they were sleeping, empty eyes staring up at the high beams of the ceiling.

Suddenly remembering his soldier, deep in that dark forest with the flies, Ereinion began marching his soldiers back into their box, walking in slow straight lines, carrying their dead high on their shoulders.

“It is an honour to give your life in defence of your people,” the tallest soldier rolled the three bodies into the darkness of the box, and chivvied the remaining nine into lines to salute the dead. “We are all grateful for your sacrifice.”

“All honourable elves fit and able to bear arms must take up their sword to defend their people.” Ereinion told his assembled army, his voice very serious as he remembered his father. “All who do not are cowards and…”

“Suiliad, Ereinion.” Ranlhach’s voice sounded from nowhere and the elfling whirled around – cheeks flushed with the embarrassment at not having heard him approach. “Am I disturbing you?”

The elf’s voice was kind and soothing but Ereinion was not mollified. If there was one thing that he hated it was to be patronised. Anybody could see that they were disturbing his play, but that was never what grownups meant by disturbing people.

“I am tidying my soldiers.” Ereinion explained slowly and carefully, his tone making no attempt to disguise his disdain for the newcomer’s intellect.

“Ah!” Ranlhach sat down cross-legged on the rug beside him and lifted the dirty dishes out of the way. “These are standing in nice straight lines.”

Ereinion gave him a pitying look and did not deign to reply.

Cursing his entire lack of knowledge about the games of war favoured by the smallest of the Noldor, Ranlhach grinned weakly and nodded towards the box. “Here, you have forgotten some.”

The young healer reached for one of the figures in the box and moved to place him beside the others. “I expect he should like to stand in a straight line too.”

“No!” Ereinion cried, grabbing wildly at his soldiers and hugging them to his chest before anyone could interfere further. “That is a dead soldier! A dead one! He cannot stand.”

Ranlhach’s pale brows shot up in surprise, and suddenly rather unsure of himself, he reached for the box only to be fended off by a pair of ferociously kicking bare feet. Only this afternoon he had been struck by the child’s frailty, and Círdan had voiced his concerns about the child’s suitability for lessons, but it was only now that he began to consider that the child might be disturbed. What sort of elfling knew of death before he was even waist-high? There were already unpleasant whispers in the town about Kinslayers and their children, and there was no need to fuel the flames.

“But I am a healer,” Ranlach prised one soldier from Ereinion’s hand and rubbed it gently with his thumb, “Maybe I can make them better.”

Ereinion gave him a pitying look and snatched back the figure.

“You cannot heal dead people, Ranlach.” The elfling spoke wearily as if he himself were explaining the sorrows of the world to an innocent child. “No one can.”

- - -

“Is that a picture?” Ereinion craned his neck to see the page, voice high-pitched with excitement. “I thought that you said there were no pictures?”

“There are a few,” Cirdan admitted reluctantly. “A very few.”

Despite only being some handful of minutes along this dreadful path, he could no longer remember what had possessed him to venture this way. It was already far past Ereinion’s bedtime, and the elfling should have been tucked up silently in his bed and he himself should have been reading at his leisure in his own room. Instead – waylaid by a tearful, homesick and lonely little elf – he had managed to agree to sitting in a knobbly rocking chair with a red-eyed elfling on his lap and a most boring book in his hands.

Unfortunately Ereinion did not seem to find this story boring at all, and if possible seemed further from sleep than he had been at the start of the exercise.

“Can I see?” Ereinion asked, and then, without waiting for an answer squirmed up against Cirdan’s side, digging a very pointed elbow into the shipwright’s ribs in his efforts to see the page. “Is that the dragon?”

Círdan snorted contemptuously. Anybody could see that it was meant to be a dragon as easily as anyone who had ever seen a dragon could tell that this artist had not.

“It is a very green dragon.” Ereinion stabbed at the page with a finger and spoke accusingly. “Adar says that dragons are black.”

“Aye, so they are.” Círdan agreed. “It is not a very good picture.”

Ereinion gave a small snort and spoke with scorn. “I bet the person who drew this never even saw a dragon!”

Breaking into a rare and genuine smile beneath his beard, Círdan turned the page. “I do not suppose that he had.”

“I shall see dragons when I am older,” Ereinion said proudly, “And I shall draw them black.”

One of Círdan’s bushy brows rose slightly but he saw no need to comment, and after a moment Ereinion let his head rest against the shipwright’s chest once more. Círdan had resumed reading in his deep voice, and with one ear pressed against the coarse cloth of his tunic, Ereinion could hear his heart beating.

“Círdan?” Ereinion’s voice, now softer and quieter, cut across the story.

“Ereinion?” Círdan paused in the tale once more to look down at his small and suddenly distinctly sleepy charge.

“The language of the Falathrim?” Ereinion squirmed and wriggled into the most uncomfortable possible position.

“Aye?” feigning sleepiness himself, Círdan rearranged the position of Ereinion’s bony little knee.

“Is that what you normally speak?” Ereinion absently pushed a handful of cloth into his mouth for sucking. It was an old habit, but one that could always calm him.

“Among friends, aye.” Círdan used one finger to pull the sleeve of his tunic aside.

Ereinion frowned a little as he considered this.

“Is that what everybody normally speaks?”

“It is not widely spoken outside my lands, but within my walls, aye.” Círdan peered suspiciously at the elfling, wondering where these questions were leading. “It is our language, our culture.”

“Will you teach me?” Ereinion spoke in a rush, his voice very quiet and his eyes full of tears. “Do not tell me there is little point, for even my father does not think I will return home until I am old.”

Círdan gave him a quick look and placed a warm and comforting hand on his arm. “Aye, if you wish me to. I should like that.”

Smiling rather shyly, Ereinion nestled his head into Círdan’s shoulder and let his eyelids flicker half-closed, adding in a very small voice, “I should like that too.”

- - -