It was late in the afternoon by now and the sky was already darkening on this, the shortest day of the year. Elrond and Elros were lying on the floor building a city out of their new blocks, and finally released from his lessons, Gil-galad was kneeling beside them. He was still dressed in his leggings and nightshirt from the morning, but in an effort to appease his counsellors had thrown an ornately embroidered tunic of deep blue and silver over these garments. The overall effect was rather comical, especially with uncombed strands of black hair hanging over his eyes from underneath his crown, but nobody was laughing.

“Now, where shall we put these soldiers?” Gil-galad reached underneath the bench to rescue a small army of blue and silver soldiers that had somehow managed to roll almost out of reach. “What about this one with a spear?”

Elrond’s eyes widened. He did not like the soldiers that one of Gil-galad’s counsellors had given them, and neither he nor Elros would ever play with them, but Gil-galad seemed to like them best of all.

“There.” Elros pointed firmly to the far end of the room, scowling ferociously. Gil-galad should know by now that neither he nor Elrond liked games of war. He was upsetting Elrond and Elrond was too quiet to tell him to stop. “Under the bookcase.”

“There?” Gil-galad laughed, his hair falling into his eyes as he turned back to look at the bookcase. “What has this little elf done to deserve such a fate?”

Elrond and Elros exchanged anxious looks, almost unable to believe that anybody could laugh about soldiers and weapons. Tears were beginning to well up in Elrond’s grey eyes now, and Elros could feel his cheeks getting hot with anger. Gil-galad was supposed to be a King and know what it was to fight in battles. He should know about the smell of blood and burning homes. He should have felt the fear of the terrible silence when it all was over and nobody knew if anyone else was left alive. He should never laugh or joke about such things.

“He is you.” Elros said harshly, swiping down their wooden palace and reaching over the rubble to grip his brother’s hand. “He is a bad King and he is going to Mandos.”

Elrond’s fingers closed tightly around his brother’s, begging him to remain quiet. His heart was beating so quickly and loudly now that his blood seemed to be making a rushing noise in his ears. They would have to leave after this. They would have to. But it was winter and it was so cold. He had once heard Maedhros say that the half-elven were too frail to survive a snowfall without elvish care.

Gil-galad frowned but his tone was still joking as he waved the tiny figure in the air. “A bad King?”

“Yes.” Elros said viciously, his voice loud and high-pitched. He had got to his feet - dragging Elrond with him - and was standing stiffly, glaring at the High King. “He is late for councils and does not act like a King and... he shows little respect for the needs of his people and is a shame on his father’s memory.”

This had hit rather too close to home, especially as the last words had obviously been quoted. His cheeks suddenly pink, Gil-galad rose to his feet, towering above the twins.

“I think,” Cirdan said suddenly, getting to his feet and coming to Gil-galad’s side, “That we should put the soldiers away for a little while.”

Elrond watched anxiously as Cirdan replaced the soldiers into their wooden box and placed them safely on a high shelf. Elros was still standing with muscles taut and ready to fight, but the Shipwright patted him softly on the shoulder, moving to block the High King from sight.

“Sit.” Although Cirdan’s voice was kind, neither Elrond nor Elros had any difficulty in interpreting it as an order. They sat down amongst the ruins of their city, Elros shaking slightly with fury and angry tears, and Elrond looking lost and scared.

Giving Cirdan a meaningful look, the Queen got to her feet and seemed to glide across the room to comfort the twins. Speaking softly and melodically, she guided blocks back into place, and soothed Elros back into calmness.

“Ereinion,” Cirdan took a firm grip of the young King’s arm, and turned him forcibly aside. Beneath his fingers, the soft cloth of the nightshirt contrasted sharply with the heavy embroidered velvet of the tunic. “Come, let us take a walk.”

---

The wind was strong out on the cliff tops, sweeping in unhindered from the sea and tearing any last skeletal leaves from the gnarled branches of the stubby trees. Without the short legs and frailty of the young half-elven twins to worry about for once, Cirdan and Gil-galad had elected to take the steep path up the rocky cliffs and through the tough knee-high heather and bracken to the highest point on the coastline.

Neither had spoken since they had left the sitting room, beyond Gil-galad’s attempt to excuse himself to get changed first and Cirdan’s terse response that it did not appear that that was necessary. Despite that, Gil-galad did not think that the Shipwright was angry with him, for his gait was relaxed and he had offered a hand on the slippery sections in a friendly enough manner.

“Cirdan.” Gil-galad said at last, then when the Shipwright turned, found himself unable to phrase his question and merely shrugged.

Cirdan was wearing his silver hair tied back as usual and for a moment Gil-galad, struggling to clear windswept strands of hair from his eyes, wished that he had done the same.

“They have seen far too much.” Cirdan had no trouble interpreting the query, despite the lack of words. “As had you at that age. Do not expect them to respond to things as any other elfling would.”

Sobered by the solemnity of the Shipwright’s voice, Gil-galad slowed his pace to walk alongside the ancient elf.

“I did not...”

“You were not scared of toys, no.” Cirdan caught Gil-galad’s indignation and glanced sideways at him, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement. “But at times you worried us.”

Gil-galad gave him a sceptical look, clearly quite certain that he had never behaved in any manner that would be wondered upon.

“Do you not remember that visitor of mine, not long after you arrived...” Cirdan began, his amusement bringing his accent more strongly into his words. The Shipwright did not speak either Sindarian or Quenya natively, preferring the softer and more lyrical tongue of the Falathrim when among his own people, and even after many years he had not lost the pronounced lilt to his words.

“Well,” Gil-galad dug his hands into his pockets and rolled his eyes, “I did not like her. She treated me as a child.”

Grinning to himself, Cirdan turned to admire the view from the cliff tops, and after a minute or two of self-righteous solitude Gil-galad deigned to join him. They stood side by side, aware of each other’s nearby warmth and support, but admiring the white and silver coldness of the waters of the bay in silence. Despite the wind the water was almost still, acting as a mirror to the clouds overhead.

“Cirdan,” Gil-galad spoke sharply and looked keenly at the Shipwright. “Am I a bad King?”

Cirdan sighed deeply, and looked out to sea for a long while. A seagull was visible as a grey shadow, wheeling against the horizon.

“There are people who depend on you, Ereinion.” The Shipwright said sadly at last. “Do not forget that.”

---

The numerous garments that comprised the ornate outfit that the High King was to wear on state occasions were not of Gil-galad’s choosing, but on this occasion he had pledged to himself that he would wear them. Even the silken undergarments – far tighter than he was accustomed to and itchy from the heavy embroidery that adorned them – would be worn, even if it was impossible for any but he to tell which type he was wearing under his heavy robes.

Someone had laid out the individual garments on the smooth white coverlet of his bed, and this was where he stood as he dressed – close to the curtains that could be drawn around the bedposts, and ready to duck and hide should anyone unwelcome come to the door. There were no locks fitted on doors in the palace, and as yet the thought of the embarrassment of trying to explain to the Shipwright why precisely he needed one was enough to convince the young King that he should do without.

The grey leggings and shirt slipped on easily enough, but the light blue tunic embroidered with silver threads and pearls looked far too much like his Naneth’s gown for his liking and the heavy robes that were to be worn over them made him feel weary, even on sight. The threads of mithril and silver that adorned the robes may have been as light as a feather, but the same could not be said of the velvet itself. No expense had been spared in making these garments, that much was obvious in weight as well as appearance.

He had not noticed himself growing since he had last worn this outfit, but it fitted him better than it had then. At his coronation he had felt like a boy dressed up in his father’s robes, but now – a little taller and a little broader across the shoulders – they were beginning to feel more like his own.

On an impulse he crossed the room to stand before the mirror that hung over the basin, and turned up his collar as his father had been wont to do. There was a moment in which he smiled at himself in the mirror, but then catching sight of his mother in the reflection he hurriedly turned it back down.

“Naneth?” Gil-galad turned to his mother who was standing in the shadow of the doorway watching him, her face suddenly sad.

“You grow more like your Adar every day, Ereinion.”

Smiling quietly, the Queen came to stand behind her son, placing a cool hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were pale and slender against the deep blue of the official robes, and for the first time Gil-galad noticed a marked difference between her hands and his own, which had become toughened by hours of sword work and spear practice.

“I have something for you,” still smiling the Queen reached inside a small pouch and drew out small a mithril brooch, “It was once your father’s.”

Looking at his mother with a slight air of puzzlement, Gil-galad held out his hand and let the brooch tip out cold into his hand. “I thought I already had all that Adar had.”

The brooch glittered in the candlelight, and somewhere in the dark outside an owl hooted. It was simply crafted in the shape of an eagle, and now he thought about it Gil-galad could remember his father wearing it pinned to his collar, just above the third button of his shirt.

“You have all that your grandfather gave your father, yes.” The Queen confirmed, smoothly brushing a stray lock of dark hair back behind her son’s ears. “But it was I who gave your father this, and now it shall pass on to you.”

Gil-galad looked quickly at his mother then, wishing that he had not noticed the tears in her eyes, concentrated on his reflection in the mirror. He had meant to fasten it in the exact position his father had worn it, but he preferred it on the left.

“Come, it is time for us to leave,” the Queen quickly straightened her son’s tunic, tidied his braids as he sat on the edge of his bed lacing his boots, and finally ushered him from the room. “Do you remember all that you have to do?”

Rolling his eyes without much in the way of subtlety, Gil-galad pulled away from his mother and stalked towards the doorway. The Queen remained as calm and stately as ever, folding her son’s discarded clothing and pulling stray pillows back into their original position.

“Naneth,” Gil-galad paused in the doorway and looked back at his mother, his shoulders slumped. “Did Adar ever forget to straighten his tunic? Even once?”

“Ion-nîn!” Laughing lightly, the queen crossed the room and lightly touched her lips to her son’s forehead. “There was scarce a dinner where I did not have to tidy him thrice at least before the meal started!”

---