Note: Sorry, I forgot to update this chapter here when I did it on ff.net. Sorry! Another Christmas story coming in the next week or so. One that I will finish before posting so that it is on time!

---

The evening meal was a long and boring affair, requiring Elrond and Elros to be dressed up in stiff, itchy clothing that was quite inappropriate for the task of sitting still for several hours. Too sensitive to the cold to wear the customary tunics of young elves, they had been supplied with woollen vests and undergarments, thick shirts and leggings, and short robes that were unpleasantly heavy and to both boys’ mortification had frills.

Now the empty dishes of fish soup had been cleared and several large platters of bright red lobsters had been carried in. Unable to contain himself any longer, Elros squirmed in his seat and thrust his arm down the back of his neck to soothe an itch.

Closely resembling a statue, Elrond allowed his eyes to flick down the table to check that nobody was watching, then hissed urgently.

“Elros! You must not fidget!”

Elros pulled a particularly ugly face and partly to annoy his brother, partly to show that he could fuss if he wanted to, licked his finger and began running it around the rim of his wine glass.

Elrond flinched. The fact that the glass held apple juice rather than wine made no difference, and the high-pitched chiming noise was sure to disturb everyone.

“Stop!” Elrond clawed at his brother underneath the table and succeeded in spilling the drink into his brother’s lap. “Stop it!”

“Elrond!” Elros’ voice rose in outrage and he slammed the glass back onto the table. “You have made me all wet!”

People were turning to stare now and from the far end of the table the Queen was giving Gil-galad a rather pointed look. The lobster claw on his plate was being amazingly sprightly considering that it had been boiled, and the flowers in the vase nearest to him were missing their heads.

“It is your fault!” Elrond muttered quickly, hoping to absolve himself of blame before anyone could scold them. “If you...”

He was cut off by the Shipwright’s upheld hand, and a quick glance at the ancient elf’s face told him that he was most certainly not pleased.

“Ereinion Gil-galad!” Círdan hissed out of the corner of his mouth, fixing the offending lobster with a gaze of ice. “Elros! Elrond! For the love of Eru, behave!”

---

It was late in the night by now. At great length the formal meal and speech making had come to an end and Elrond and Elros had been sent upstairs to their beds, leaving Gil-galad, the Queen and Círdan behind to entertain the many guests and counsellors. Gil-galad looked as if he felt this was more than slightly unjust, but mercifully remained silent and contented himself by pressing a plate of particularly strange tasting liver canapés on the least favourite of his advisors.

The minstrels had started their music making by now, and a number of elves were venturing to dance.

“Come, Ereinion. We must lead by example!” the Queen floated to her son’s side and removed a tray of small biscuits spread with spiced fish from his hands. “It is one of the jigs of Doriath. Do you know it?”

“Of course.” There was a distinct note of hurt in the High King’s voice. “You taught me. Do you not remember?”

She did now that she thought about it, although she did her best not to dwell on thoughts of what could have been. A Midwinter celebration when her son had been but five years old, and she had taken his hands and taken him hopping and skipping around the room. He had been wearing a new red tunic, for it had been the first time he had been allowed to stay up so late, and he had been so proud. It had not occurred to her that he might hold on to the memory for so long.

“Of course I remember!” making light of the mistake, the Queen smiled brightly and held out her hands. “You did not tread on my toes once!”

Gil-galad laughed, strands of black hair falling over his eyes. “Adar did, always! Do you remember? And Fingolfin would cut in for the sake of your feet!”

The Queen looked sad suddenly, and the smile faded from Gil-galad’s face.

“Come, I shall lead!” seizing his mother’s hands, Gil-galad hurried to join the dancing just as the music resumed. Sometimes he forgot that for his mother the loss of his father was a much more recent grief.

---

It was past midnight when the young half-elven twins were woken by the creak of the door.

“Elrond! Elros!” Gil-galad hissed from the doorway, making rapid motions with his hands to indicate that they should proceed in a manner both fast and silent. “Come, it is time to sing.”

“I thought the celebrations were over.” Elros said loudly. “You sent us to bed.”

“The celebrations of the Noldor are over, yes.” Gil-galad spoke in a low voice, a smile playing on his lips. “But there are other elves in these Havens. The festivities of the Falathrim have not yet begun.”

He had been younger than Elrond when he had been sent to Círdan at the Havens for safekeeping. He had joined the Shipwright in festivities every year since then, but he had never forgotten his joy and amazement at the almost ethereal beauty of the sea elves as they gathered on the shore under silver lamps and sung of the sea.

“Will you not get into trouble?” Elrond slipped out from beneath the covers and dragged on his leggings and tunic over his sleep-shirt. “Did your counsellors say that you could go? You shall be tired tomorrow and they will be cross...”

The young half-elf had not yet realised the difference between his own capabilities and those of his full-blooded kin, and was apt to worry aloud in a manner that Gil-galad termed as nagging. Fortunately before he could reply with a suitably cutting retort, the Shipwright entered the room.

“I have said that he may come. It is a festival of my people, and it is important to me.” Círdan strode across the room to sit on the bed and help the twins dress. “I should like you all to come, and I think it would have been important to your father.”

That was enough for Elrond and Elros. They were out of bed and struggling to find vests and socks before Círdan could even explain what would happen.

“Go and get changed, Ereinion.” Círdan’s tossed Elros the tunic that he had found crumpled on the floor. “Should your tiredness tomorrow cause your counsellors to become cross, I shall be quite happy to come and explain the reason for your weariness.”

One of Elros’ socks arrived in his lap rather more quickly than the half-elf had thought it was possible, considering that he had left it on the other side of the room. Shrugging, he put this thought aside and concentrated on squirming his feet inside his boots without untying the laces.

---

“I do not like it.” Elrond whispered, fumbling under the tablecloth until he found Gil-galad’s hand. “It is too noisy.”

His breath caught on his words and soon he was sniffling.

“Oh,” Gil-galad stuck his head under the tablecloth to give the elfling an anxious look, “do not cry!”

“There are too many people.” Elrond whimpered and took a shuddering breath. “I am sorry.”

Seeing the child’s grey eyes brimful of tears, Gil-galad cast a quick look round to check that nobody important was watching, and crawled under the table too. It was calmer in the half-light under the tablecloth – the hustle and bustle outside reduced to an ever-changing collection of boots and shoes visible through the gap.

“Do not be sorry.” Gil-galad fumbled through his pockets in search of something to mop up the elfling’s tears and on finding nothing settled for a comradely grin. “I was scared too, the first time Círdan took me.”

“But you did not cry.” Elrond wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“No, I did not cry.” Gil-galad shook his head then grinned mischievously at Elrond. “But I would not let go of Círdan either. I did not let him set me down all night.”

“Oh.” Elrond peeped at Gil-galad from beneath his damp lashes and gave the young King a shy smile. “Did Círdan not mind?”

Gil-galad pursed his lips in thought and then shrugged with a smile. “He may have done.”

Elrond looked at him, eyes wide in surprise. He was scared of the gruff, plainspoken Shipwright and the thought of making him even a little bit cross was enough to leave him unable to speak.

“I would have cried and screamed if he had left me, even for a moment.” The High King grinned at the memory of the Shipwright’s frustration when he realised that he had to choose between a clinging elfling and a howling one. “I think he was scared of making me cry. He did not know how to soothe me.”

Elrond gave Gil-galad a doubtful look. He could not imagine a High King as an elfling even smaller and babyish than he was. Had he not known that kings never lied, he might have thought that Gil-galad was just trying to make him feel better. “If I come out, will you stay with me?”

“Yes.” Gil-galad smiled in relief and hurriedly backed out of their cramped refuge. There was not much space under the table for anyone with legs as long as his and he kept knocking his head against the underside of the table. At least he was no longer wearing his crown. His counsellors would not even try to understand why he had dented a priceless heirloom.

“You will not leave me though, will you?” Elrond asked anxiously, sticking his head out from under the table to give the room a long and worried look. “I will get lost.”

“Of course I will not.” The High King smiled reassuringly. “If I lose you then Naneth will probably roast me and serve me for breakfast.”

Elrond sucked in his breath in shock. “She would not!”

“Oh, I do not know,” he looked suitably worried for a moment then grinned as Elrond began to look as if he might cry. “Naneth loves meat with redcurrant sauce.”

Gil-galad held up the tablecloth to allow his young friend to crawl out. In the far corner of the room he could see the unmistakeable figure of the Shipwright leaning against a pillar and shooting glares at anyone that looked as if they were even thinking of asking him to join the dancing. In retrospect, perhaps Cirdan had found an armful of quivering elfling a useful excuse to avoid having to participate in the merriment. The shipwright had never had the most extroverted of personalities.

“Perhaps,” Elrond crawled out from under the table and got to his feet, almost immediately grabbing hold of the High King’s hand as hard as he could, and spoke a little doubtfully, “Perhaps Círdan would hold me too.”

Gil-galad grinned mischievously as he pulled Elrond through the dancing crowd. “I am sure that there would be nothing he would like more.”

---

There was a moment’s silence in which Elladan and Elrohir waited for their father to continue, and Elrond foolishly entertained hopes that his sons had fallen to sleep.

“Is that it, Ada.” Elrohir said, with an almost audible wrinkling of his nose.

“You were a bit... babyish, were you not, Ada?” Elladan struggled to find a suitably inoffensive word whilst still voicing his scorn.

“Aye,” Elrond stifled a grin, “I was very young and I was missing my Naneth and Adar badly.”

Both twins fell silent at this, having spent little more than a night or two away from their parents since their birth some seven years before. Even then they had had Glorfindel to stay with them, and on such occasions that their parents had abandoned them to the good humour of the elves of Imladris the long-suffering Balrog-slayer had never yet managed a whole night’s sleep in his own bed.

“I think I like our Midwinters better, Ada.” Elrohir said seriously at last. “I would miss you and Ammë too badly.”

“And Gil-galad does not sound fearsome at all.” Elladan added, obviously fiercely disappointed at this. Both twins were very taken with the last High King of the Noldor, and loved to be told stories about him.

“He yet had some growing to do,” Elrond said cheerfully – then on seeing both twins’ woebegone looks at seeing their hero turning into someone no more worthy of their admiration than Glorfindel added, “But he became fearsome in time. Already he was outstripping what Círdan could teach him in use of the spear.”

Both twins nodded in satisfaction. Elrond coughed in a rather unlikely manner. Thankfully both boys were settling down to sleep now, getting comfortable beneath the covers and wriggling far less than they had been just half an hour ago.

“But you like our Midwinters best, do you not, Ada?” Elladan said eagerly.

“Being with me and Elladan and Ammë,” Elrohir clarified. Although neither he nor Elladan could yet compare with Gil-galad in the heroism stakes, if given the choice he would rather spend his Midwinter with his family than the High King – and he would like to think that his father would do likewise.

“I have enjoyed almost all my Midwinters,” Elrond said slowly then swooped forward to grab both twins in a giant hug. “It matters only that I am with those that I love.”