A/N: Some useful dates. The Peredhil are around 60, so the gap between them and Ereinion is only 80 years, enough for the three of them to be considered very, very young adults by elven standards. I’m assuming, too, that the Peredhil grew up in the Fëanorian camp, and that they would consider Ereinion an elder brother, rather than a father figure.

2. Having Fun.

In which Ereinion has one of “those” days and Oropher makes friends with a dwarf.

Ereinion strode past a group of guards and returned their salute distractedly. He was fuming at how Celeborn had managed to get the worst out of him, and ashamed of his own speech and dim-witted accusation: “I do not consider myself better than you for that…”

He winced slightly, hoping against all hope that Celeborn might be stricken by a sudden loss of memory and would completely forget to mention that enlightened opinion to his wife, or Círdan, or his wife’s Atar, or…unduly harsh voices caught his attention and brought him out of the miserable contemplation of his failures. A group of elves in brown and green were encircling two of Finarfin’s tall, blond and shinning guards, who seemed utterly perplexed by the angry words and menacing gestures of their opponents.

Ereinion elbowed his way up to the front of the group and could hardly suppress a smile. There stood a tall, petulant elf, glaring at the guards, or rather at a dwarf that stood between the guards, clad in the shiniest mail Ereinion had ever seen covering one from the peoples of middle earth. The dwarf looked mildly annoyed, even as the elf got dangerously close to insult.

“...And we will not tolerate this!” he was saying, waving his hand threateningly in front of one of the guards’ nose. Apparently, the group of Wood-elves had been training when they spotted the dwarf with his elven escort and had chosen to express their disagreement quite loudly. They were clad in their under tunics, sweating profusely and holding iron shod quarterstaffs before them as they watched the discussion. 

“But, Lord Oropher,” the guard was almost pleading to the haughty Sinda Ereinion recognized as one of Thingol’s counsellors, or so he claimed, who had survived the sack of Doriath and had settled down in Ossiriand, proclaiming that he would not mingle again with traitorous Noldor. “He’s got a message for Lord Círdan...”

“Not any of these spiteful creatures will set foot in this encampment while I stand,” he was proclaiming proudly, and that was enough for Ereinion to take leave from his senses and stand forth.

“You’re welcome to abandon the camp right now, Oropher,” he said seriously, and then a playful glint shone briefly in his eyes, “or maybe you would like to lay down, so as you do not have to eat up your words, my lord?” he smiled, bowing mockingly and collecting amused chuckles from the audience.

“Oh, look,“ Oropher turned to face the intruder and a scowl showed in his face. “The fosterling!” he said with scorn. “Yes, you would be friends with a dwarf, of course you would…but the Doriathrim won’t tolerate their presence here, child!” he added menacingly.

“He has a message for Lord Círdan, and he will be treated with all courtesy, Lord Oropher,” Ereinion said evenly, clutching his fists and containing his anger with visible effort.

“Or? Are you threatening me, princeling?” the other answered tauntingly, letting the staff dance casually in his hand in a challenging motion that Ereinion did not miss.

“I’m commanding you to give up your attitude and show due respect to a messenger...”

“You’re “commanding" me, child?" the Sinda was almost choking in outrage, now. “The day is yet to come when I receive commands from a cursed Golodh!” he shouted, out of himself. “Let’s see if you can do something apart from “commanding”, princeling,” he added, gripping firmly his weapon and adopting an offensive stance in one fluid movement

A rush of anticipation ran across the onlookers, and the guards shifted restlessly, trying to shield Ereinion.

“My lord...” one tried to grasp his arm, but Ereinion pushed him apart with a firm hand. He bowed to pick up a tree branch he had spotted in his quick scanning of the area while Oropher began circling him, taunting him at the same time.

“Come on, youngling, let's see what you can do without your bright toys… how do they call you now? Brith-galad? (1)“ he joked, feinting and winking to the audience, pleased to see that his taunting remarks were met with amusement.

Meanwhile, Ereinion was trying hard not to fall to the provocation, although it was increasingly difficult for him, feeling his anger and frustration boiling inside. He weighed his makeshift staff in his hands, getting used to its balance as he studied Oropher’s movements, while a small voice within his head berated him soundly for letting himself become entangled in such a situation.

On the other hand, though, the chance for working out some of his disappointment in a good sparring match seemed more appealing each passing moment.

They were moving in circles, as the crowd moved apart making room for them, and stray voices of encouragement –and bets- were heard from time to time. Oropher thrust a couple of times, tauntingly, and Ereinion blocked his strikes with apparent ease, although he could feel that a powerful hand wielded that wooden pole with decision.

“That’s all you can offer, youngling?” Oropher said, as he pushed the advantage of his heavier weapon with a series of thrusts that made the Noldo step back, even as he parried every blow with a deft hand.

“Enough to keep a dirty mouth like yours at bay, Oropher,” Ereinion answered, smiling mockingly, and with a swift twist of his waist, and a wrist turn, he cut through Oropher’s guard and hit him in the hand that balanced the staff. “You truly need to learn some manners,” he added, striking again at the same point and earning an amused cheer form the audience.

That enraged the already angered elf, and throwing caution to the wind he closed in with all his force, pouring blows upon the Noldo with startling fierceness, and forcing him to retreat by raw strength. Ereinion ducked and parried, waiting for the enraged Sinda to make a mistake while keeping his staff in defensive motion, and even managing to hit his opponent every now and then. Soon, though, he found himself desperately trying to block a particularly vicious blow, straining with all his force with his staff against the Sinda’s. He felt he was losing his ground, as Oropher was pushing him down, slowly but steadily.

“No bloody kinslayer commands me, child,” the Sinda groaned in his face, tasting victory, “You better learn that…”

Suddenly, Ereinion heard a familiar voice in his head. “Every fight is a fight for your life, son, you must learn to turn disadvantage into advantage…” With a wicked grin, he let his muscles relax, as if conceding defeat, and let the weight and purchase of the other elf carry him, as he nimbly fell to the ground and rolled to one side, while Oropher stumbled and fell forward.

Ereinion regained his footing and weapon first and struck the ribs and then the rear of the Sinda. “And you better learn to fight, Oropher,” he laughed, bowing to the cheering crowd, “lest a child bests you...”

The Sinda was on his feet in no time, red-faced and spitting fire, seeking revenge, and before anyone could call a halt to it, a well-known voice roared.

“What on Arda is this? Ereinion, stop it, right now!”

The onlookers opened a way for Círdan, who was approaching the gathered crowd with purposeful strides and an angry scowl upon his bearded face. Ereinion immediately lowered his weapon and awaited doom with a grimace.

Oropher, though, was too enraged to pay attention to anything except the noisome Noldo, so he did not manage stop his charge in time to prevent the iron-shod end of his staff from connecting with his opponent’s head forcefully.

Ereinion crumpled down like a young tree stricken by lightning.

“I…told…you,” Oropher panted, scowling at the unconscious form sprawled at his feet.

“And I’ll tell you!” a mighty roar was heard then, followed by a blood-curling “Khazad!” The dwarf picked up the branch and charged Oropher in his midsection, sending him back and down to the ground and then stepping upon his splayed form.

“And now that you’re not standing, “my lord,” the dwarf grunted menacingly, his iron-clad foot upon the elf’s chest and Ereinion’s branch on his throat, “I’ll set foot in this camp with your welcome and deliver my message to Lord Círdan, do you agree?” he demanded, adding some pressure to encourage his point.

“I can’t hear you,” the dwarf insisted, much to the crowd’s amusement.

“Yes, you are welcome!” Oropher shouted angrily, and satisfied with that, the dwarf climbed down the elf with a friendly smile.

“My thanks. Will any of you tell the young one that his friend has finally learnt his manners?” he asked of the laughing crowd as he threw away the branch and nodded to Círdan who bowed to him.

“Lord Gundaghâl, welcome to this land,” the mariner said grimly.

“Lord Círdan,” the dwarf returned the bow and then followed the shipwright, paying no heed to the astonished looks of those present.

***

“Easy. This is going to hurt…”

“Ouch!”

“I told you to stay put, Ereinion! Anyway, that was a foolish thing to do on first place!”

“Elrond…”

“I’ll shut up. But you know I’m right. Here. Can you open your eyes, now?”

Ereinion obeyed carefully, feeling as if a spiked wheel was turning inside his head and poking at his eyes from within. He was so intent fending off the pain, though, that he hardly felt the last stitches.

“That’s it. A nasty blow to your temple was that, but no concussion, I’d say. How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” he groaned angrily. His memories were blurry, but the anger and the shame were clear reminders of something that had gone awfully wrong, or at least wrong enough for Elrond to switch to his patronizing, healer’s mode.

“Here.”

Ereinion glared at the young Peredhel and the basin he had just placed in front of him.

“I’m fine, Elrond,” he said in indignation.

“Just in case,” was the mild answer.

As he fought to sit up, Ereinion felt a cold sweat break over his brow followed by the dreaded wave of nausea washing over him, and he hardly had time to double up over the basin before he started throwing up with dedication.

He was still retching painfully, cursing his own stubbornness and the creative ways the Valar always found to humble him, when a melodious voice broke into his haze of misery.

“Lord Ereinion?”

The king of the elves of Middle-earth let escape an undignified growl. He was leaning on an elbow, naked from the waist up, his head threatening to part company with the rest of his hröa and retching helplessly over a basin. He was in no mood for visitors, for Ossë’s sake!

He groped blindly, and grasping the first thing his hand could get hold of, he wiped his mouth. Raising trembling fingers, he put aside stray locks of raven hair from his face and looked up to his untimely visitor. He let escape a pitiful whimper, then, and his hand flew up to protect his hurting eyes from the sight of the bright elf that stood patiently in front of him, clad in shining mail, blond as golden Laurelin, and shimmering from within brighter than a Fëanorian lamp in the midst of a dwarf’s hole.

“Who let this flower in,” he roared in a voice he had trouble recognizing as his.

“It was me, Gil-galad,” Elros stepped into his distorted field of vision with a wide grin. “He brings a message from King Arafinwë…”

“Aran Finarfin,” Elrond felt the need to translate for him.

Ereinion inhaled deeply. He was finding the idea of murdering Elwing’s sons more appealing each passing moment. “Thank you, Elrond,” he said with undisguised sarcasm. He looked at the cloth he was clutching in his trembling hand, only to discover that it was his own tunic. He considered briefly wearing it, but discarded it with a swift movement. He sat up, then, clutching at the brink of the cot and closing his eyes, waiting for the tent to stop spinning before looking up again, his eyes conveniently shaded this time by one of his long and still shivering hands.

“So, what’s your message, “ he inquired hoarsely.

“King Arafinwë sends his greetings to you, Lord Ereinion,” the elf said in his musical voice, bowing deeply as he spoke.

Out of habit, Ereinion returned the bow and immediately regretted it, as his head started pounding with a vengeance. “I hope he sends something else,” he growled, not too courteously.

“Yes, milord,” the messenger said unfazed, “he also sends word that you will be welcome to join in a family dinner in his tent tonight, as Arien sets."

Ereinion sighed tiredly.

“Tell the King that I… appreciate his invitation and that I shall attend.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf bowed again, and seemed ready to leave. Ereinion lifted his other hand, though.

“Wait, what’s your name?”

“Cálëndil, my lord” the elf answered calmly.

“Cálëndil. Would it be asking too much of you… if… I hoped that you… simply delivered the message while omitting the...circumstances?“ Ereinion inquired, grimacing slightly.

The elf smiled openly, and it was as if a star came out in the middle of a long, shrouded night, Ereinion thought grudgingly. “Of course, my lord, I can do that,” he offered kindly, and then winked at him. “I knew your father, my lord,“ he added. “Back in Valinor, of course.”

Of course, Ereinion thought bitterly, ‘cause you stayed there and he died here,' and then loudly, “can I also ask of you, then, not to mention this conversation to him, either, should you ever meet him again?” he groaned.

The elf let escape a musical laughter and nodded. “Of course my lord, my lips are sealed.” And with a courteous bow, he left without awaiting his leave, Ereinion noticed grimly.

“We’re invited too,” Elros chimed in happily, dropping brusquely upon the cot and causing Ereinion to wince at the vibrations it sent up to his aching head. ”A kingly reunion, you see, Finarfin, you and I.”

Even in his battered state, Ereinion perceived the minute wince that shook Elrond’s face for a moment and felt compassion flood him.

“Yes, kingly thing, indeed; a king without a land and one who’s about to see most of his subjects depart for Aman….Finarfin knows how to choose his company, doesn’t he?” he joked. He was rewarded by a small but heartfelt smile from Elrond, while Elros, as it was his wont, did not catch the hint.

“I wouldn’t be joking if I were you, Ereinion,” he smiled unabashedly, “I know for sure that Círdan doesn’t approve of such behaviour as you displayed today,” he added with a wicked smile

“And since when he relies on you to let me know of his displeasure, young one?” the elf asked the impudent youth sternly. This time, Elros did catch the hint, and blushed slightly.

“I’m sorry…”

“You better are. Haven’t the two of you things to do, duties to attend, other kings to harass or something?”

With a happy laughter, Elros put his hand to his heart and bowed dramatically to him. “Of course, King Gil-galad, I have a fleet to build, after all,” he smiled proudly, heading for the entrance with a wide grin.

“Elros.”

“Yes, my lord?” he asked innocently, one hand already holding the flap up.

“You’re not mocking me with all that “Gil-galad” thing, are you?” Ereinion knew how to sound menacing, and took advantage of it.

“My lord, I’d never…”

“For I wouldn’t take it well... not at all… if you understand me,” the king said in a low voice. He had no way of knowing it, of course, any of them had, but he looked exactly as his grandfather, then.

“No, my lord, I mean, well, yes I understand, but… do not think…”

“I will not, if you give me your word,” he said sternly, and was rewarded by the serious expression that crossed the peredhel’s face.

“I wouldn’t joke with that, my lord,” Elros said solemnly. “You are our light and our star,“ he added, “even when battered and bested by a wood-elf!” he joked, and then ran away before Ereinion found something to throw at him, his laughter resounding in the tent.

Ereinion shook his head carefully and then looked up to meet Elrond’s troubled eyes. The Peredhil were having a hard time sorting out their feelings, now they had made their choice. Different in mind as they were alike in face, Ereinion knew that Elrond was grieving, while Elros had not yet taken in what his choice actually meant, except that it made him a king of men. He knew that he would have to find time to spend with both of them separately to talk about that, but, on the other hand, he was reluctant to broach the subject when it was so clear that they were both avoiding it as effectively as they avoided each other.

“And you, Elrond? No other foolish elf to prod or stitch?” he asked fondly.

“Oropher’s wounds won’t need stitching, I presume,” the Peredhel answered noncommittally, while he disposed of the basin and rearranged bandages and instruments in his leather bag.

“Wounds?” Ereinion sounded genuinely surprised “I don’t remember hurting him...except his pride, maybe…” he recognized with the honesty that had been hammered into him since his early childhood. That earned him an open smile from the serious youth.

“It was the dwarf,” Elrond explained, relishing the look of utter amazement in the king’s eyes. “He took up your staff and charged against him… and sent him down in a pretty undignified way, I must add,” he smiled, explaining the rest of the tale with unnecessary –but welcome- detail. Only, he omitted telling Ereinion that Finarfin’s guards had carried him off the field at their lord’s bidding. Wiser than his years, he perceived that was some piece of news the young king’s pride could perfectly do without knowing.

“Oh, so he was capable of defending himself,” Ereinion groaned, rubbing his aching temple. “I’m such a stupid…”

“You’re not stupid, Ereinion. It was the right thing to do,” Elrond observed calmly.

“Well, I really appreciate your words, Elrond, remember to tell Círdan that before he hangs me, will you?” Ereinion sighed as he stood, looking a bit discomfited, rummaging in a chest and finding a clean but much worn tunic. “I’ll go check the warehouses for the troops, I haven’t see how they’re faring since we arrived,” he added tiredly. Of course he had not, what, with all the hustle and bustle with the settling, and the different opinions, and the different delegations. He didn’t notice the compassionate look Elrond threw his way as he put on his tunic and rearranged his unruly plaits, his mind already set in the tasks ahead.

“Be good, Elrond,” he admonished distractedly, waving goodbye to the amazed Peredhel and stepping outside with purposeful strides.

TBC

Notes:

(1) Gil-galad means “Star of Radiance”. Oropher is calling him ”Pebbles of Radiance” (Brith: pebbles) in mocking reference to the crystals set in Ereinion’s shield that earned him the name.