Disclaimer: The characters, locations, and history used herein remain the property of the Tolkien estate and other vested parties. The author of this fiction has received no monetary or material compensation.

Characters: Círdan/Gil-galad.

Warnings: Corporal punishment

on reflection

It had been a bad day.

A spectacularly bad day, if he thought about it.

An endless, tedious, frustrating, emotional, very bad day.

Ereinion Gil-galad covered the last few strides between himself and the hilltop, and from that isolated crag watched as stars winked into being on the glassy surface of the bay. The wind had died, although heavy bruise-blue clouds had earlier seemed to promise a coming storm. Before noon, Círdan had looked to the roiling skies and predicted they would amount to naught.

Of course, the Shipwright had been correct. Ereinion scowled at the calm water. He had yearned for good weather, the bitter cold and consecutive gales of an island winter sapping his spirits, but this was just the final insult. That he should get his wish, that the air should grow quiet and almost balmy, that spring should make an early appearance. . .now.

Unfolding the arms he had crossed over his chest, Ereinion allowed one hand to wander back and settle on his seat. He winced and decided that rubbing would not help. He sighed, rested the hand on his hip and gazed at the stars. The sky was a massive blue-black plain, an ocean bigger than any ocean. A sea that went on forever, wherever one happened to be. As a light breeze caressed his face and fingered strands of his dark hair, he felt a somewhat rueful smile tug at his lips. Perhaps Círdan had been right about the weather, but that old soul had been definitely wrong to say no storm would come. It had indeed come.

And it had been a veritable tempest.

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That morning~

“Ereinion, My Lord!” The statement was issued and left to stand by itself, as often seemed to happen lately. ‘Ereinion, My Lord!’ Three words that conveyed a wealth of confusion, exasperation, and concern. Confusion that the young High King of the Noldor could not seem to maintain a smooth grip on every piece of minutia with which he was expected to deal in a day. Exasperation that the High King seemed at times as distractible and free-minded as a schoolboy. Concern that this was the leader of the Noldor race -- this was the one who held their hopes and fears and future.

And he could not write a simple diplomatic note to an ally. The words lay on the page, blunt and tactless. They were benign enough, but definitely undiplomatic. And diplomacy was essential for a High King! As essential as skill with a blade or a spear. The advisors clucked among themselves, quietly began editing the letter.

Ereinion sighed, careful to hold a neutral expression. He had spent many long days practicing the control necessary to keep from rolling his eyes, especially in official company. Círdan had, at one time, been wont to take such a transgression mildly enough, although the Shipwright had always discouraged Ereinion’s tendency to show scorn or frustration when he felt it. But as the young sovereign had grown, left childhood for lanky adolescence, taken up his Adar’s title and all that went with it, his guardian had become more and more set on decorum. More and more determined that Ereinion Gil-galad be the High King that he was meant to be, and bring honour to the Noldor.

Adar had brought them honour. Ereinion squinted into distant memories of warm dinners at the long table, evenings by a roaring fire, the increasingly muted, urgent discussions that had led up to the last wrenching moment he had seen his home. There had been so much to deal with each day, so many stresses and difficulties, and yet Adar had never worn the face of an elf drowning in details.

Adar had probably never rolled his eyes.

After the edited letter, another diplomatic note, written in haste. This particular ally was more assured, less in need of hand-holding. After the note, a final few mentions: the guard would be staging a dress march come next dawn, and he would of course attend; there would likely be a letter wending its way to them from Lorien -- something about trade, and he would needs address it most formally. After the few final mentions, a brief lunch eaten in solitude, and after that he was scheduled for yet another meeting to discuss the upcoming visit of administrators from several mainland Edain settlements. Lords Haelen and Denhil had covered each detail with him more than once: his two chief advisors, with Círdan in agreement, oft expounded about the importance of such focus in the running of a land.

Appearance was at issue. The new High King might be young and green as a willow sapling, but what the people -- ally and enemy both -- needed to see was a smoothly functioning kingdom. They needed to see correspondence answered promptly and in appropriate terms. They needed to see reasonable, productive trade agreements erected and maintained. They needed to see soldiery that stood tall with a confidence held only by those who utterly trust their leader. And they needed to see, when a diplomatic envoy trekked to the Isle of Balar, every flag raised high against the brilliant blue sea, every guest chamber prepared down to the correct fold of a cool linen sheet. Details. Círdan was wont to say that the success of any endeavour lay in attendance to its details.

Ereinion sighed. Círdan was, of course, right. His people needed the sort of reassurances now that would have been wholly unnecessary before. They had lost their brave, strong, experienced High King -- not to the final call of the West, but to a vicious battle. They were faced with a new ruler, and this new ruler was unproven, little more than the grey-eyed child who had clung tightly to royal robes and attended functions with a nanny ever in tow. And they were forced to accept such disquieting circumstances at a time when darkness -- the very darkness that had taken High King Fingon from them -- was beginning to creep inexorably over the land to which Eru had bound them. Slow but relentless, it tainted all it touched. Indeed, it was a shadow come to obliterate all things light.

Moss. Aye, it reminded him of the slow green creep of moss on a rock near the shore. Though winds scoured their exposed faces, where such rocks nestled against each other or back against the hills the moss found its home. Ereinion had tracked the benign greenery from the first ease of one winter through to the turning of the leaves, and seen it never yield its progress or its place. He shivered slightly.

That blind creeping determination was what they sought to thwart with their details and their trade agreements and their alliances, small and large. So Ereinion, walking a lonely stretch of sand, would find his mind mired in darkness. Tangled in details. So wearying, it was, to greet each dawn with the knowledge that the world was just a touch less bright than it had been the dawn before, and that it would grow less bright still by the sun’s next rising. So wearying, and yet they would continue to fight. They would win for they were the Firstborn, bound to the land and to the other races, and there was no option but to win.

Smiling faintly, Ereinion moved to the window and gazed out toward the bay. Círdan would dearly love to hear him admit that he was thinking such diligent thoughts. So many days, it seemed, he and the old Shipwright had just naturally found themselves on opposite sides of a debate. So many years, on reflection. Cloaks in the cold. Running on the stairs. Visits to the healer. Studies. More studies. And then, gradually, the duties that had flowed into his world like the tide into a sheltered cove -- expected, unsurprising, and utterly implacable. Never would the tide stay its journey over the protests of one young elf who felt unready, unsteady. Never would the tide even take notice.

But Círdan had noticed. More than one evening he had spent in the old elf’s sitting room, warmed by the fire but unable to tear his mind from the damnable plans and letters and diplomatic errands. And more than once Círdan had frowned and refilled his wine and insisted he relax -- if only for a few short hours.

Always, he had to admit, the Shipwright had noticed.

Ai -- it was unfair to resent Círdan; it was unfair to resent the restrictions on his freedom. He had a home, a place of safety and structure, even of luxury. He had a warm bed and a roof under which to sleep, food in his belly, no shortage of cloaks or boots. And yet, at times, as he sat watching his advisors fret, as he read through stacks of diplomatic missives and military reports. . ..

What an untenable place to be. He could admit, at least to himself, that his mind oft strayed to duty even when he should have been relaxing with idle thoughts; at the same time, he resented the very existence of the duty!

What to do? What to do. He glanced at the position of faint shadows on the rug, and sighed. It was time to once again be High King Gil-galad, leader and future of the Noldor race. His entire team of advisors would be present, and all the little conflicts would hang on the air of the Council chamber. All the conflicting personalities, all the ages-old feuds and petty differences would be trotted out and relived. Councillor Fëadin had once accused Councillor Caernion of glancing too specifically at his wife during a diplomatic fète. Councillors Gildon and Ardlor had once, possibly during the Years of the Trees, been close friends, but they had fallen out over a goat or some such odd irritant and reportedly had not spoken since. Fortunately, they usually agreed on matters of policy -- but the required passing of notes was tiresome and tended to make a meeting run long.

Turning to leave his water view behind, Ereinion caught a flash of gold glinting through what had earlier been a solid bank of low cloud. Sun. It had been so long since last the beaches had been gilded by sunlight, so long since the bay had literally sparkled like a vast bowl of gems just waiting to be mined. . ..

A quiet knock interrupted his reverie. Lingering in the dim corridor, a young page peered cautiously into the chamber. “My Lord? The Council sent me. ‘tis time for your afternoon meeting.”

Ereinion appraised the youth. “I thank you for your attendance,” he replied. He paused a moment, made the decision, continued: “But this afternoon’s meeting has been cancelled.”

“Cancelled?” squeaked the page. “But, My Lord, the Council said--”

“Cancelled indeed,” Ereinion interrupted firmly. “By order of the High King. That would be me.” He smiled at the wide-eyed youth -- in truth, an elf no younger than he. “Please,” he added more gently, “inform the Council that they may retire for this day.”

The page bowed and hurried off. In the hall, Ereinion felt a brief thrill as he turned to stride in the other direction. Toward the side entranceway that Círdan always preferred. He donned his boots and stepped to the threshold, grateful for the fact that he was still permitted to wear relatively comfortable breeches and a loose shirt even to his Council gatherings. He needed not shed a single royal robe. Reaching back out of growing habit, he retrieved his cloak from one of the wall hooks. Its fabric was smooth and comforting between his fingers; he reconsidered, replaced it on its hook and slipped through the door.

A salty bite of wind welcomed him. There had been a time when a tiny elfling had shrunk from such strange and aggressive weather, burying his face in coverings, wanting the shelter of arms around him. His homeland lived in memory as a place of warm sun, gentle breezes, crisp snowy days when he could challenge his Adar’s indulgent guards to snowball throwing contests. . .and always win against those big elves because they had been, of course, his Adar’s indulgent guards, and their love for him had shone in their eyes. Havens weather, so blunt and forceful and utterly unyielding -- that had frightened him. So well had the weather seemed to fit with the Shipwright to whom he had been entrusted. Both wild, in a sense. Both grey and full of solitude. Both foreign to wide elfling eyes, and unreadable, and closed to him forever.

But that time had long since passed, and what had appeared cold and lonely now held warmth for him. What had appeared closed was now, in its reticent way at least, open. The elfling had become an elf who did not cower but turned his face into the wind and closed his eyes to feel its ageless dance across his skin. The elf now would burst outward from confining spaces, seeking the wild and the distant. The ocean would call to him, and he linger oft at its edge and imagine the places it could see.

The details that would have filled his afternoon slipped easily from his mind, and Ereinion smiled contentedly as he neared the shore. The rocks were slick and dark, the sand heavy and without tracks. Nay, not too many ventured down to wander at the water’s edge this time of year. Out beyond the bay’s shelter, fishing boats clustered as though discussing important matters. Their lines were invisible to him, but he knew they plumbed the cold depths and waited for their quarry.

And the sun cooperated with his plans, burning through layers of cloud to reveal a cool blue sky. Gulls wheeled, dark-edged against the brightness, and filled the air with their calls; the fishing vessels shone on sparkling water. Ereinion traced a meandering path down the shoreline, sometimes avoiding and sometimes indulging the foamy fingers of water that lapped at his boots. His hair blew one way then the next in a shifting wind. In his throat he tasted the sea and the fish and every wildflower that sprouted on the hills above. In his ears the ocean sang. It was wild, unstoppable, beauteous.

Yet impermanent. Ereinion strolled the docks as afternoon fled. He stepped between crates of smoked fish destined for various towns; he stepped between vats of oil and the great snakelike coils of rope that had fascinated him so much in his youth. Once, exploring the docks in the Havens, he had ducked down into the middle of one such rope coil and gone unseen for nearly an hour -- Círdan had called and called for him, but he would most likely not have been found had he not been struck with an irrepressible fit of giggles. He recalled the old elf’s whiskered face, stern, looking down at him, and his sudden remorse. He had not meant to worry Círdan so.

The afternoon was gone, and the house was before him. Slipping in as quietly as he had left, Ereinion removed his boots, scanning the long hallway. The portraits of shipbuilders past seemed to frown at him from the walls. The shadows were darker, fuller, and the silence deeper than the light soundlessness of day. Early evening was come; all was settling.

He sighed. Those hours of liberty had been wondrous, just what he’d needed, but now he wished the smell of sea air would leave his clothing and his hair. He wished his cheeks would not tingle so pleasantly, nor his body feel so renewed. They were betrayals of his duty, all. He remembered crouching in the rope coil, staring up at Círdan and feeling tears burn in his eyes. The guilt had been worse than any censure.

But there was nothing to be done about it now, except remove to his quarters and wash for evening meal. Would Círdan be in the main dining hall when he arrived? Would the Shipwright have anything to say about his unauthorized departure, or would disappointment simply darken that old elf’s eyes? Neither prospect was palatable.

Ereinion rounded the corner and climbed the long staircase, his steps heavy. Just one meeting, it had been. One damnably important meeting, one final chance to fix arrangements for the upcoming conference. It was always a delicate matter, negotiating with Men. One more meeting to assure the negotiations were a success. He tightened his lips, shook his head. Nay -- he had needed the time. He had been tired and anxious, overtaxed. Reaching his chamber, he strode inside.

Círdan was there, waiting.

His stride at once seemed to lose its determination, so that he edged forward rather than boldly walked. By the large window, standing next to the curved window seat that was piled high with cushions and books and even a few ragged stuffed toys that refused to be relegated to the storage rooms, Círdan stood watching him. Ereinion nodded in greeting but could not think of anything to say, and so he moved to open the doors of his wardrobe. Círdan seemed content simply to watch. Silence made the space between them feel heavy.

“Where have you been?” the Shipwright finally asked.

Ereinion felt himself startle, although the question had been softly voiced and almost conversational. He could feel the old elf’s gaze nearly boring a hole through him, but he determinedly looked through the wardrobe’s contents. After that, he moved to the shelves beside it, then to the chest of drawers, selecting his clothes for the evening. It was a gratuitous exercise: a servant had already, as always, laid out a comfortable yet respectable tunic and leggings in which he could lounge after evening meal. He smoothed a few invisible creases out of folded items, studiously keeping his eyes averted from the window.

“Will you pay attention when I speak, Ereinion?”

Ai -- the conversational tone had evaporated. Círdan’s voice was sharp.

“I apologize for my. . .distraction,” Ereinion replied, turning to face the Shipwright. “I went for a walk on the shore.”

Círdan raised a bushy eyebrow. “I looked for you on the shore.”

“Oh. But I also went down to the docks, to walk among the fishing vessels and the shops for a time.”

“A time?”

“Aye, well. . .for the afternoon.” Ereinion felt an uncharacteristic urge to squirm and forced himself to remain still. Círdan’s face was unreadable.

“You had an important errand to run, then.”

“An import-- Well, not. . ..”

“Speak, child,” Círdan barked. “You know ‘tis unbecoming to hedge about a reply.”

Child. Ereinion could not control the slight flush that crept over his face. It was rare that his guardian chose such a word. Tightening his lips and raising his head slightly, he continued to meet Círdan’s eye.

“So I have hit a nerve, have I?” Círdan asked. “You know that I only call you ‘child’ when you act like one.”

Aye. It galled him to admit, even to himself. Círdan had never belittled him, never treated him with anything less than respect. Ereinion sighed and lowered his eyes.

“So,” the Shipwright pressed, “if I judge by what little explanation you’ve provided, you cancelled an important meeting with your Council in order to spend an afternoon doing nothing. Am I correct?”

“Aye,” Ereinion murmured. “You are correct.”

“Why?”

It seemed so trivial, suddenly. Ereinion raised his eyes again. “I needed the time,” he said. “I needed it, Círdan. I have been so weary. I just needed a bit of peace right then.”

“And you could not approach me?” Círdan countered. “You could not inform me, let me ease your burden?”

Ereinion shook his head. “You cannot ease it. I am High King. The load is mine to bear. And. . ..”

“And?”

“And. . .so should the decision be mine. I am High King, Círdan.” His voice sounded unsteady, but he pushed the words out anyway. “If I choose to cancel a meeting, then I choose to cancel a meeting! Is the choice not mine? I am the King, as you keep reminding me. I am the rightful heir to my Adar’s legacy -- I work diligently to honour that legacy -- if the High King chooses to cancel one conference--”

“Ereinion!” Círdan strode abruptly to stand before him. “Silence, child.” The command was gentle, without anger.

“I. . ..” Ereinion felt heat diffuse over his face. His protests dried up and blew away like grass seed at the summer’s end. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “I needed to be alone.”

“Nay,” Círdan corrected quietly. “You wanted to. You wanted, and you disregarded your duty so as to indulge that want. Didn’t you?”

“Nay. Nay.”

“Have I ever failed to listen to you when you have come to me with a concern, a worry? Have I ever?”

“You have not.” Regret lanced through him, and Ereinion willed down a traitorous dampness in his eyes. He wanted to move backwards in time and strike that moment out of history, turn to the page and say. . ..

“Aye,” Círdan said. “Aye, you did have a choice to come to me, but you chose instead to run away from your responsibilities.”

“Just for an afternoon, a few short hours!”

“I know. But a few short hours can see damage done.” Círdan studied him, it seemed, a bit sadly. “Are you aware that Lord Denhil and Lord Haelin were much embarrassed by your surprise announcement?”

Ereinion blinked. “Embarrassed? Why?”

“Because they had attended you not more than an hour previously, and had left fully expecting the meeting to occur! They had filed into the Council chamber with the rest, and when you did not arrive as scheduled, every councillor turned to them for an explanation.” Círdan snorted faintly. “And then you did not even do those attendees the honour of personally adjourning the session, but instead sent a guileless young page to deliver the news! To the Council it appeared that you care not for their wasted time and effort, and also that your two closest advisors have no idea of your intentions from one moment to the next.” The Shipwright turned and began pacing to and fro past the window. “Then, when the advisors sought me out to inquire after the whereabouts of their king, I was compelled to inform them that I knew no more than they. What an impression to make, Ereinion. These elves have devoted themselves to governing the land because they care about the futu! re of all within our borders, and of Middle Earth beyond. They do not work for glory or fame -- truly, they have neither in their quiet posts! They work because the work exists and needs to be done. But they must be able to trust in your dedication, young one. Otherwise, they will never be able to follow you. And the future of the Noldor people depends on them following you.”

“I had n-- I had no idea the Council would be upset by my decision,” Ereinion entreated, but even as the excuse left his lips he felt a solid wall of shame descend before him. His Council had trouble enough moving forth on the business of a day. They needed a determined force at the head of the table, even if that force oft needed to stop and ask a question, or lean in to whisper with advisors. “I did not know,” he tried again.

“Nay, Ereinion,” Círdan corrected him again. “You did not THINK.” The old elf regarded him solemnly, as though perhaps seeking -- or perhaps finding -- something in him that had not been there before. Or measuring him, weighing the bad against the good and considering a decision.

It took every bit of effort to keep his head up and meet Círdan’s gaze, but Ereinion did so. Truly he could do that much, even in disgrace.

Círdan sighed. “I cannot allow this to pass unanswered. You caused distress and strife with your indulgence of a whim, and you may have damaged your own future credibility in the process.” The decision apparently made, the Shipwright nodded once. “I am going to spank you, Ereinion.”

There was a buzzing in the chamber. A fly batted itself erratically against the window, seeking a way through to freedom. Its body was an iridescent blue in fading sunshine, and made a staccato taptaptap on the glass. . .

Círdan wanted to -- was going to--

“I have left you speechless, for once,” Círdan observed. The fly taptaptaptaptapped spastically; it seemed desperate.

“Y-you. . .?”

“I made myself clear, Ereinion.” The old elf had not moved and yet now seemed to loom over him, impassive and solid. Unmovable.

Ereinion tried to breathe; it was as though his lungs no longer remembered what to do. He stared at Círdan, waiting for the truth, waiting to be told what would actually happen. He would have to apologise to the Council, of course, and likely in writing as well as in person. Perhaps he would be required to craft an essay regarding the need for diligence and steadfast attendance to duty. Essays were the worst, for they robbed him of the ability to move and interact. They forced him to be still and put cold silent words down on parchment. They were unnatural things, and he disliked them. But he would work hard to atone and to show the councillors that they could indeed rely on him. An apology and an essay. And. . .oh. He would likely need to forfeit his evening walk, and likely for several evenings. He sighed inwardly: those walks were a balm to him. To have to give them up--

“Ereinion.”

His name had been uttered quietly, but the sound of it broke through his mental ramblings. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and closed it. Then he remembered how to breathe and did that as well, and focussed on Círdan once more.

“You are listening to me, child?”

Child, again. “A-aye, Círdan,” he replied. “I am listening.”

“Good.” Círdan took a single step toward him and then reached out to take his hands, squeezing them gently. “I know this must seem unfair to you. Perhaps even cruel. And most definitely unwanted. But it is warranted here, Ereinion. I have tried to teach you with words that you must come to me; I have tried to show you, always, that you can. But that has all failed, as your escapade this afternoon proves. If your ears and your eyes will not allow you to learn, then the lesson is best delivered elsewhere.”

“But I learn!” Ereinion gasped. “I learn--”

“Nay, Ereinion. You have not learned this. I have tried, over and over again, to convince you that one must share one’s burdens in life or risk being overcome by them, and yet this day you ran like a fugitive fleeing a dungeon. You had only to run to me, child.” Círdan’s eyes seemed, for just a moment, oddly full. “You had only to run to me.”

“I. . .I will.” Ereinion nodded, a little too insistently. “I will, Círdan -- from now on. You do not need to -- you should not--”

“How would your Adar have responded to such behaviour?”

Ereinion’s face burned, but the guilt was, suddenly, supplanted by something else. Hot and seething, it began slicing through his rational thought. It was a wave like the waves that come to splinter helpless boats against jagged rock. It rose in him, and he let it. “You are not my Adar!” he snarled. Taking a step toward Círdan, feeling a strange headiness at the shock he saw in the Shipwright’s eyes, he lowered his voice and spat, “You never were. You never will be.”

Then he turned and fled, flew down the long curved staircase, down the main corridor. His dark Council chambers were on his right, further down on his left the room where he had stood looking over the bay and made one thoughtless choice. Beyond that, the row of hanging cloaks, the row of boots below them, and the door. He slid to a halt there and stood, breathing hard, his head flung back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every muscle screamed, ‘run!’ But another voice, quieter, bid him stay, wait, not escape through the door for a second time in one day. . ..

“I am proud of you, Ereinion.” Círdan was behind him, a hand on each of his shoulders. The Shipwright turned him, gently, away from his potential escape.

“I do not want this,” Ereinion said quietly.

“I know,” Círdan replied, nodding. “But it must be done. Now come, child.”

Ereinion swallowed painfully but did not fight as Círdan led him into a small chamber off the hall. It was the linen room wherein laundered sheets and towels were folded after being brought in from the drying lines. A stone hearth in one corner warmed it; it smelled of soap and fabric.

The Shipwright closed the door behind them before releasing him and stepping further into the room, and Ereinion fought the urge to run again. Círdan had turned away briefly; he might make it. . .he bit his lip as Círdan turned back toward him, a wooden stool in hand. Not a word concerning his outburst: had that been forgotten? The silence swelled, grew massive and heavy, and he needed to fill it with words. “I--I understand that I should not have. . .that I was wrong to cancel the meeting,” he began, backing up a step as Círdan placed the stool deliberately in the centre of the room. “I do understand my er--my mistake, and I can absolutely assure you that--”

“Ereinion, silence.” Círdan frowned at him. “I do not wish to hear assurances from you now. They mean nothing coming at such a convenient time. We will talk while conducting our business, and you can then assure me of your future good behaviour. For now, please hold your tongue.”

The need to explain surged into his throat; it was vile, bitter. Círdan had said nothing about earlier. Nothing about how he had first yelled and then leaned close to sneer out the cruellest words he could find. Ereinion stared at the old elf, looking for anger. That would be bad. But worse, worse. . .he searched Círdan’s eyes and tried to read Círdan’s movements. Even a seemingly hard soul could be hurt. “I d-did not mean it,“ he tried. “I never. . ..” His voice wavered and failed, and he could only shake his head mutely at the Shipwright.

“I said we shall speak later, child,” Círdan said. He seated himself on the stool and patted his thighs. “I know not whether your Adar ever punished you in this fashion, but the answer little matters. Come to me, Ereinion -- let us see this done and move forward.”

Edging forward, Ereinion left the relative security of his place near the door. There seemed to be a great distance separating him from Círdan; at the same time, his reluctant shuffling steps ate up the space all too quickly. He stood before his guardian, the ancient being who had taken a strange elfling in to raise. Not only to watch or to tend for a time, but to guide and teach and see all the way into maturity. As he stared down at Círdan’s lap his mind flitted back to an evening in the shipbuilder’s quiet study, not long after his arrival at the Havens. He had circled the great wooden desk with curiosity and caution both, eyeing the objects that sat on its top but touching nothing without permission. He had circled the desk until he could circle no more, for Círdan was in the way, and then he had succumbed to his desire for contact and scrambled unceremoniously onto Círdan’s lap. He remembered the way the elf had stiffened, as though! wholly uncomfortable with his presence, and how it had not mattered so much at the time. What had mattered to him was the warmth he could feel through the Shipwright’s clothing, and that Círdan’s chest had been as solid as his Adar’s when he lay against it. He stared at that lap, remembering.

“Now, Ereinion, if you please.” With a flick of one hand, Círdan motioned him to the side, and waited until he had moved before speaking again. “Your breeches, Ereinion.”

“What?”

Círdan sighed faintly, then offered him a brief smile. “I shall assist you.” Long, work-roughened fingers reached up to untie his lacings.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Ereinion caught the Shipwright’s hands. “I-I shall do it,” he whispered. At Círdan’s acquiescence, he fumbled with the ties. His fingers were reluctant to work properly; he blinked and forced them to grasp the leather strips. A swell of pride at success quickly faded when he remembered the purpose of his effort. He looked to Círdan and received a small approving nod, and that seemed, suddenly, more important than anything else.

“Come,” Círdan encouraged. “Do not worry about your clothing; I shall deal with it when you are settled.”

Ereinion closed his eyes briefly as he eased his body forward and down. He felt Círdan grip his arms and guide him into place, and then he was eyeing the stone floor and wondering what to do next.

“Relax, Ereinion,” Círdan said. “You are so stiff right now I imagine you might break.”

“Would that be so bad?” he muttered, then yelped involuntarily as a hard slap landed on his backside. “What was that for?” he protested, twisting around to see Círdan’s face.

The Shipwright raised an eyebrow at him. “If you are wholly unaware of the procedure I shall be following here, I can only say that you shall soon learn. And that particular blow was for your muttering. I do not expect to hear self-pity from you, Ereinion Gil-galad. Not ever. You are too strong and too noble for such baseness. Now eyes forward, please.”

Complying, Ereinion stared back at the floor. His arms hung down; he folded them in front of his chest, unfolded them and reached to grip the legs of the stool, reconsidered and wrapped them about himself, then straightened them again and laid his palms against the stone.

“Are you quite finished?”

“I. . ..” Ereinion shrugged as best he could and shook his head.

“Do what you must, child. Grip my trousers if you wish.”

“Al. . .Alright.” He took hold of the sturdy fabric and twisted it in his hands as he felt Círdan lower his breeches. Although the chamber was warm, he shivered slightly at the feel of air over his bottom.

Círdan’s hand was warm and resting on his lower back. “Now tell me, Ereinion,” the Shipwright asked, “why are you being punished?”

“Th-- The meeting. I cancelled the meeting.”

“Aye, indeed, but that is not the only issue here. Think, Ereinion.”

He thought, struggling against distracting washes of humiliation. He was lying upended and exposed. . ..

“What did we talk about today?” Círdan urged.

“We t-talked about. . .we talked about. . ..” It came. “We talked about me coming to you, Círdan. We talked about me learning that my burdens need not be shouldered alone, and about my actions having unintended consequences.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the thoughtless dismissal of elves with whom I must continue to work productively. Such as their embarrassment, which they did not deserve and which may hamper my efforts to lead them.” His own embarrassment, perhaps, was only fitting.

“Very well said.” Círdan’s voice sounded proud; it sounded like it had when he’d first mastered a difficult manoeuvre with his sword, when he’d received a perfect score on a difficult history exam. Círdan had asked to see the paper, had never returned it. Some months later, the test and the score forgotten, Ereinion had been in the library and found the paper neatly folded inside one of the Shipwright’s most prized books. He swallowed a sob that threatened to escape.

The second slap landed, and it was not a hasty swat applied through breeches. It was shocking, forceful, and loud -- such a loud, sharp crack in the silence. And the echo of it was still sluicing around the chamber when the pain registered. Sharp like the sound, immediate, it seemed at once hot and strangely cold. Ereinion bit his lip to avoid crying out in surprise, and willed himself to be still. When the hand lifted, a warm sting buzzed over his right buttock. The third slap, of matching force, was then applied to the left. When the fourth was administered, it fell slightly lower on the right, and Ereinion squirmed just a bit despite himself as the sting there heightened into a burn. If Círdan noticed, however, there was no indication: the Shipwright’s hand continued to rise and fall. The palm landed by turns right and left, from high up on his bottom to just above his thighs. And when it had completed one downward circuit it began moving upward again! , meticulously, methodically, mercilessly covering all the territory. Ereinion squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and wrung the cloth in his hands. He would not cry; he would not move; he would not leap up and run away. He would not cry; he would not move; he would not. . .he repeated the silent vow, clinging to it as tightly as he clung to the fabric of Círdan’s trousers.

Círdan was saying something. He realized he could hear the Shipwright’s voice over the meetings of hand and backside. It was drowned in his own mantra, though, reduced to a background thrum like the sound the ocean makes inside a closed house. Ereinion resisted it, and it grew louder. “Are you listening to me, child?”

He shook his head.

“Your response tells me you are, Ereinion. Now hear me. You will tell me in future when you feel a need for time alone or for a rest from your tasks, and we will discuss your options before you choose one. Am I clear? Ereinion, answer me. I want to hear your reply.”

He was expected to speak? To speak? Ereinion shook his head again, more determinedly. There was no way he could unclench his jaw, not when such a fire was raging behind him. If he opened his mouth he would start wailing like an elfling and never stop!

“Ereinion,” Círdan pressed. “You WILL answer me. We have more to discuss, and this will not be over until the discussion is.”

Ai, Valar. Ai. . ..He rallied his self-control and found the word. “A-Aye,” he breathed. A whimper slipped out afterward; he pressed his lips together and managed not to sob.

“Good. You will also remember that your advisors and your councillors do want to follow you, but that they must be given assurances of your competence and your dedication both. How will you give them such assurances?”

“I. . .I w-will t-treat them with cons-- consideration,” Ereinion choked out. His every instinct wanted to start him thrashing about on Círdan’s lap. He could not possibly endure any more and yet the palm was still ranging patiently over his bottom. Each time it landed he wanted to scream as the pain flared. Each time he took the pain silently, felt the palm leave and waited despairingly for it to return. Each place it landed was hideously, unbearably sore already, and it just built upon the hurt. His eyes were still closed but he could feel tears leaking from them, and he could taste salt in his throat. The world was so small -- only him and the lap and the cloth in his sweaty grip, and the Shipwright’s relentless hand.

“Good, again. Sadly, we know how important it is that you become the leader your people need. Especially now, Ereinion. And that means that you must always think of duty first. While you can and will relax at times, those times will generally not fall in the middle of a working day -- at least not unless you and I have discussed it first. The upcoming trade conference is a duty. Every meeting you have to finalize arrangements is a duty. Do you understand me?”

“Aye,” Ereinion cried. “But it’s final! I’ve done it!”

“Perhaps. And yet you will go over all of it as many times more as your Council deems necessary, because you must. Am I clear?”

“Aye!” Ereinion cried again, squirming more desperately.

“Stop that, child,” Círdan scolded. “You know this is just.”

“Please, please,” Ereinion gasped.

Círdan, in response, angled him forward and began focussing every slap down near the tops of his thighs. Ai, it was bad; it was bad -- Ereinion twisted and writhed, choking on his tears, struggling for air. His hindquarters were aflame and he could do nothing to escape. Every move was restrained by the Shipwright; every shift that might have given him an opening was met and confounded, and while exhaustion sapped his muscles the hand continued to fall as steadily as rain on the bay. It would never end, never stop, never even slow enough to let him draw a breath. Panic flared in him and he strained uselessly against Círdan’s hold, wasting the last of his strength. There was nothing more to do but accept that he was bent over his guardian’s knees with an inferno being kindled and rekindled in his backside, and that all his tears and struggle would get him nowhere until Círdan was ready to let him go. And also that Círdan would indeed let h! im go, when it was enough. It would end; it would end; it would end. . .he only had to trust in one who had never failed him. . .. Surrender flowed through him and he felt his body sag. Then Círdan’s palm fell unhindered against his blazing skin, the sound of it echoing round the watching walls and muffling itself in folded sheets. Ereinion listened vaguely, wondering how long it could go on.

Then it was, without explanation, over. Ereinion hung over Círdan’s thighs. The world was a fire engulfing him; he could feel nothing but the flames that continued to scorch his bottom. He could see nothing through a shimmering ocean that seemed to have sprung from his own eyes. His thoughts were scattered, lost. Each breath came, but he knew not how, and time passed.

Moments or hours later, Círdan wrapped strong arms around him to help him rise, and Ereinion leaned heavily into them as the ancient shipbuilder then reached down to raise his breeches. They were made of soft fabric but felt like the roughest canvas against his skin. He straightened with a ragged breath, expecting the arms to be withdrawn: instead, Círdan pulled him close again and lifted one incredibly gentle hand to brush the hair from his damp face. The young king could count on his fingers the number of times he had been invited into the Shipwright’s embrace, but as steady arms encircled him he wasted no time in relaxing there. His head on Círdan’s shoulder, his silent tears found expression. Over his own rough, quiet weeping he could hear his guardian’s voice, and it murmured the sort of soothing nonsense that would have seemed so much more at home on his Adar’s tongue than on that of a crusty old elf.

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Breathing salt into lungs that had come to need its presence, Ereinion closed his eyes and listened. The breeze whispered and he could hear his name in it. Distant, comforting, like a line thrown to a sailor gone overboard. On the high bare hill, the blue night soft and welcoming, he heard it again, and turned.

There, far down the hill. Lantern lit, waiting. Círdan raised one hand -- the hand that had so recently administered so much pain -- in a wave. Ereinion felt the pull, the tie that he had once believed would never exist between a young Noldor prince and an old, solitary shipbuilder. They had begun as strangers, uneasy, forced onto a path together and stumbling into each other with each small step they made. They had begun as soft curves and sharp corners that just would not fit. Ereinion’s memory sailed an ocean of spilled milk and slammed doors, of important meetings interrupted by a needy elfling, of walks on the shore and stories coaxed from Círdan’s lips. He stood at the rocky summit, the bay at his back, the stars all around him.

On reflection, the weather was a bit chilly to be out with no cloak. Círdan’s lantern threw a warm glow; the sitting room would be snug and fire-lit, and a glass of wine would warm his bones. Ereinion started down the path for home.

The End