Author's Notes: Last chapter of this story, but I intend to continue with a sequel. My 'what if?' plot bunny got together with my slashy plot bunny, and well, I've got rabbit poop everywhere.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin, unless otherwise noted) and additional notes are at the end of the story. Hopefully, I haven't screwed up the Quenya too badly.
Starlight
530 First Age
Age had come relatively slow to the mortal, but it had come nonetheless. Grey streaked his hair; lines now appeared at the corners of his eyes. He might have passed still for a very old elf, but the truth of his mortality was mirrored in Idril's eyes whenever she looked upon her husband.
"You will be missed," Ereinion said with genuine feeling.
"We leave the folk of Arvernien in the hands of Eärendil and Elwing - they will soon surpass us in their deeds," Tuor predicted.
Ereinion wished he shared Tuor's confidence in the Peredhil. The sea called strongly to the son of Tuor; Eärendil would not settle down willingly into the place of his parents. Nor did Elwing offer much reassurance. Ereinion sensed her distraction, that the glorious Silmaril she bore occupied her thoughts overmuch.
It would be unfair and unkind to speak of his worries. Tuor's mortal life waned; little of it had been easy. The elf's heart wept for Idril's sorrow, inevitable as it seemed. To pass what time they had left to them, far from the troubles of their kindreds, he deemed paltry recompense for all they had given in the service of Gondolin and the Valar. [1]
"I pray you have the forbearance of Ossë," Ereinion said instead.
"Have faith, Tórnë. Keep your hope in the mercy of the Valar - they will deliver your people and mine."
534 First Age
The message arrived by way of a nervous young elf of the people of Maedhros.
'Know that we bear no ill will toward Elwing and her people. Our swiftest protection shall be at her command should the forces of our common enemy be called against the folk of Arvernien. Yet we remain bound to our oath, and will go to such lengths as we must to regain that which belongs rightfully to the sons of my father.'
Ereinion tapped the letter thoughtfully against his hand, considering the message and its warning. He did not entirely understand what the Fëanorians expected of him. He could not by force take the Silmaril from Elwing; he was not inclined, in any case, to do so on behalf of the Kinslayers and thus see his fate and conscience joined to their guilt.
Círdan had received his own missive, of much the same content. Ereinion laid the letters side by side, both written in a somewhat clumsy script. The Noldo guessed it to be the hand of Maedhros. "What are your feelings on this?" he asked.
"What are yours?" Círdan countered.
Ereinion frowned. "I think they hardly matter. Elwing is not of my people, and even if she were, I would overstep my authority if I forced my judgment upon her. She must decide for herself whether the suit of Maedhros has merit."
Círdan stood silent; Ereinion realized he had not given the right answer. "If she can make the decision," he said finally. He wondered if the Silmaril had come to mean more to Elwing than even her children. The walls of her house heard little laughter. Still, he could not justify taking the jewel from her.
Círdan shook his head. "You think only of Elwing."
The younger elf bit his lip, delving deeper. Elwing's decision must affect all the folk at Arvernien - some of whom were his own people. Now the blade turned - could he permit her to keep what might endanger those whom he had a responsibility to protect? Celeborn's words came back to him. "By their jewel and ours shall come the hope of both our peoples."
He thought he had at last the answer Círdan sought. "It must be returned to the Valar, but Maedhros will not do this," he guessed.
Círdan smiled. "A wise ruler must think always of the future, though it brings discomfort or danger to the present." His smile faded and his sea-grey eyes grew serious. "Do not underestimate the warning of this message. Maedhros will attack - ye can have certainty in that. We can only hope that we will be ready." The mariner trailed off, some far-off vision turning his thoughts away from his foster-son.
Ereinion sat patiently, watching the expression on Círdan's face as it changed, and felt a stirring of fear; what the ancient elf saw upset him. At length, Círdan spoke again. "No doubt Elwing and others have also received the letters, and have their own opinions on the matter."
Celeborn soon sent word of a council to discuss the fate of Elwing's Silmaril. 'I suspect you are of like mind, my kinsman, and agree that the Silmaril must be kept though it shall cost us dearly,' the Sindarin lord wrote. 'Therefore your presence at the council I find indispensable, as opinions on the matter here in Arvernien are divided sharply and fear too easily overwhelms reason.'
~~~
Elves milled about the gathering hall that Tuor and the Gondolindrim had built. At one end of the room, someone had gathered a dozen or so low-backed chairs into a semi-circle before the fire, and soft-padded benches angled away from the circle toward the middle of the hall. Various lords of once-great realms had found seats in the inner circle. He found an empty chair next to Celeborn, who nodded briefly before turning again to Pengolodh on his right.
Looking about the circle, his eyes came to rest on an elf he did not know, though he did not look altogether unfamiliar.
"That is my cousin, Oropher, lord of the Laegrim," Celeborn told him. "And one whose support in this we are not likely to gain." [2]
The elf bore a resemblance to his kinsman in his features and silver hair, but where Celeborn was elegant, Oropher was austere, cloaked in the simple garb of the Laiquendi. The elf's pale grey eyes met his for a moment, hard and unfriendly.
By custom, the townspeople had the first say, and most spoke in favor of keeping the jewel. Many stared at Elwing as they spoke, and Ereinion realized that they saw not the lady but the bright jewel that hung at her neck. He could not but wonder if they should not rid themselves of this poisoned gem and the thralldom it cast upon the populace.
"I will be cursed rather than see this gem in the hands of the sons of Fëanor, and defend it by all the unspeakable acts they have committed in its name," a dark-haired Sinda announced, restoring Ereinion's attention to the meeting. The elf was the last of the common folk who wished to speak, and silence fell before Galdor stood.
"Vengeance cannot guide us in this. Let the Silmaril go, lest more blood be shed." The elf had followed his mother's kin into Beleriand, but the blood of Alqualondë beat ever in his Telerin heart. He would not forget what Fëanor had done to his father's people. "I have no wish to take up arms against my kindred, yet remorse will not stay the swords of the Fëanorians."
"Long ago," Oropher began, "the Enemy twisted our ancestors into a creature that would kill without remorse, that would turn even on its own kind in jealousy and covetousness. You know of what I speak. Yet, what now separates the House of Fëanor from Morgoth's abomination? What evil will they not do to regain this jewel?" he asked, gesturing at the Silmaril. "It works its malice upon us even now, as we hold it beyond all reason. We have more to fear from the Goldamir than the wrath of its claimants." [3]
"May I be heard?" All eyes turned on the daughter of Dior. "We are foolish to give up this gem so easily. In Arvernien we have prospered; the forces of Morgoth do not trouble us. We have made a peace out of our troubles. The light of Elbereth lives in this gem, and not even the fetid brow of Morgoth could dim that light. It brings us fortune, even now." Some murmurs of agreement followed her words.
"You may think so, brennilen, but I would urge otherwise. Naught but ill has ever come of those gems. It is said they are tainted by the Enemy, but I say they were tainted before that. I know more of this than any of you, for I have held them in my own hands. My grandfather's pride and obsession tainted them long before Morgoth took them. Let my father's brothers have it, and be done with it." [4]
Oropher's eyes narrowed. He had not at first noticed the quiet Fëanorian who sat in the shadows, very likely to escape notice. Ereinion could see from the sour look on the elf-lord's face that he was not much pleased to find himself in agreement with Celebrimbor.
Arphenion stood, shaking his long, dark hair behind him, as he regarded the assembly with the lechyl eyes of an exiled lord of the Noldor. From the elevated heels of his boots to his opulent robes in the dark blue of Fingolfin's house, his appearance, the elf hoped, would intimidate if his words failed to do so. "That which was stolen remains stolen. The Silmaril rightfully belongs to Fëanor's descendants." [5]
Celeborn refused this reasoning. "By the wicked things done by the sons of Fëanor, not least the murder of Dior, they have dispossessed themselves of any inheritance."
"Or so the junior house of the Noldor would have it, for it suits them to dismiss the claims of the eldest blood."
"Likewise did my father speak when the crown passed to híredh Fingon, Arphenion," Celebrimbor snapped, his face and voice leaving little doubt of his paternity. "Not all the Noldor see it thus." [6]
"The crown was certainly never meant to pass to the Moriquendi," Arphenion countered, undaunted. "If we are to speak of evil deeds, let us not forget the shameful loss of Tol Sirion." He met the eyes of the High King without recoil.
"I advise you to speak not of what you do not know," Ereinion said, a warning note in his soft voice.
"I knew your father well, aryon Artahéro. What fortitude he lacked when a youngling in Aman, he did not find here in Beleriand. It was a bitter loss, the pass of Sirion, and the people of the North suffered much for it. Ni á avatyarat ai i yondo aranion lá nin antaro estel." (Forgive me if the son of kings does not give me hope.) [7, 8]
Slow to anger, Ereinion felt the hot rush of blood in his cheeks as he answered the elf-lord. "Forgive me if I ask whether Fingon knew your loyalties were so easily bought. 'At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him, and he fought with Gothmog… .' Where, pray tell, were you when your lord fell, Arphenion?" Ereinion knew well that the dead King's steward, cut off from the main host early, had fought bravely beside the Falathrim. Yet so too had his father stood against Sauron in a battle of wills that allowed the folk of Tol Sirion to escape unmolested. [9]
"Is our purpose here to discuss the Silmaril or to give the Gelydh a new audience for their quarrels?" Oropher murmured derisively.
Círdan touched his foster-son's arm in a calming gesture. At this moment, he found himself in full agreement with the difficult Sinda. He cast a look upon Fingon's steward that would have given pause to the aforementioned balrog. "Arphenion, keep a civil tongue in your head. Quetil Tarennalyava." He looked at Ereinion expectantly. "How do ye find in this matter?" [10]
The High King drew a deep breath. "We cannot but keep the Silmaril and hope that we can protect Arvernien should Maedhros prove true to his word. It belongs to the Valar, and to the Valar it must be returned. Yet all chances of this are lost should it be given to my kinsmen. We trust in Ulmo that his designs shall yet bear fruit, and the path to Valinor made straight."
Both Arphenion and Oropher stood as if to speak, but Círdan held up his hand. "Dispossessed are the sons of Fëanor, of their inheritance and of the Silmarilli," Círdan intoned. "The jewel shall not be given up."
Ereinion made haste to escape the hostility that still hung in the air of the hall, its tendrils snaking along his spine and clinging to his heart. He stood outside in a chill winter drizzle. He felt weary; as always when he came to the mainland, he found no rest in his dreams, and the making of enemies had proved tiring work. He closed his eyes as the rain washed the tension from his body.
"Tar Etyangoldion - that is what they call you, no?"
Ereinion decided that Quenya could be an exceedingly ugly tongue, particularly when spoken by a sarcastic Sinda.
Before he could answer, Oropher spoke again. "Know that I hold you responsible for what shall come to pass. They are your people, your kin." The elf-lord turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving a bitter taste of resentment in the mouth of his adversary.
"And yet," Ereinion murmured, "we are also kin."
538 First Age
"Go now, and rouse the guard on Balar - we follow," Círdan exhorted. Ereinion, roused from his bed by the rapid chatter of the dolphins, saw the sleek animals turn at once from the lighthouse, the gravity of their tidings evident in their swift departure. Natural gossips, the dolphins had often entertained the young Noldo with their tales, though they strayed occasionally into the scandalous and hardly credible. On this dark night, however, under a heavy cloud Ithil could not pierce, Ereinion felt their urgency. The worried frown on his foster-father's face told him something terrible had happened. "The sons of Fëanor have reached Arvernien. Already, I fear, we come too late, but we must do what we can."
On Balar, the Falathrim loaded their fastest vessels for departure. Ereinion moved stiffly, unused to the mail he wore, and gripped his spear tightly, his nerves crackling with tension. In his sheltered life, his spear had pierced naught but fish. Without enthusiasm, he followed in Círdan's wake as the mariner hurried toward his ship.
A voice hailed him as he reached the gangplank, and he turned to meet Celebrimbor. "I thought you should have a proper shield."
The smith had overlaid the thin shell with silver, and from the silver had cut the stars of Ereinion's device, laying bare the white elven steel. Surprisingly light, the King knew it would hold strong. Therein lay the merit of the Noldorin alloy, first made by Curufin, its secrets now held by his heir. "A proper shield? Celebrimbor, this is too beautiful to carry into battle."
"So long as you use it well," his kinsman smiled.
Ereinion read the Tengwar inscription at the top. "Gil-galad?"
"You have not heard the people call you this? For your eyes, like starlight. You are in need of an epessë. 'Ereinion' really does not suit you anymore. [11]
"Come back, Artanáro," he added, laying a hand on the younger elf's cheek. "Arphenion looks only for an excuse for Maedhros to claim the crown."
"But why?" The ignobility of a king without country hardly seemed worth such strife.
Celebrimbor shrugged. "It is no secret that Fingon was close in friendship with Maedhros. Arphenion is restless - he wants war with Morgoth."
He heard the warning in his kinsman's voice, yet there was little he could do. He needed Arphenion, and Fingon's steward knew this. The elf-lord had military experience the young King utterly lacked. Even now, suspicious as might seem his loyalties, Arphenion had raised on short notice the warriors among their people and now spoke to Círdan's captain about the landing at the Havens and how best to repel the Fëanorians.
When at last they reached the mainland, the elf found he had little need for spear or shield. They had come too late. The sons of Fëanor had fled. The Silmaril had disappeared; Elwing was gone, her children taken. A tale quickly passed among the Falathrim, so garbled when it reached Ereinion that he thought of the children's game, Secrets. The daughter of Dior had dived into the sea from a second-story window - on this, all the storytellers agreed. The remainder was strange - by some accounts, Elwing had turned into a bird and flown west bearing the Silmaril.
Círdan accepted this fantastic story without surprise. "Ulumo's plans now come near to their end. Either they succeed and the Bali will have mercy upon us, or they fail and all is lost."
Yet now the remnant at the mouth of the Sirion must concern them. The host of Maedhros had left the Havens in ruin, and the survivors had little wish to remain in the shadow of their shattered home. The elves of Arvernien had proved a remarkable people, remaking their lives in defiance of all they had lost. Now treachery of their own kindred - not for the first time - had taken what little remained to them, and Ereinion saw despair in many faces. Anger, he saw also, particularly among the Iathrim, twice subjected to the Fëanorians' madness. Bitter words refused Círdan's invitation to remove to Balar, bitter words refused to live there with the Golodh king.
Arphenion had already gathered a brigade to stop the spread of the fires, and Ereinion took charge of the rest of the Noldor to gather the wounded and do what they might for them. Among the wounded, Ereinion realized, they would have to count those too stunned and grieving to help themselves, and he saw many of these - husbands who sat unseeing, unhearing over their wives' lifeless bodies, children terrified into mute silence, hidden in every conceivable small space.
Ereinion's search led him to a little house, cheerily decorated as though its inhabitants wished to put their terrible flight to Arvernien behind them. The mother lay cruelly slain in the doorway, her eyes fixed forever in an expression of disbelief. Inside he found no survivors but a small child, who came to him trustingly. He started to lead the little elf out of the house, through the garden so as to avoid the grisly horror of the front doorway, when a voice stopped him.
"We'll take care of our own, Dagwenir. Your kind is not wanted here." Ereinion winced at the appellation; he felt the hate and pain that flowed from the other elf in waves. He wished to affirm his innocence, yet knew it would not make a difference. [12]
He dropped the elf-child's hand and backed slowly away, realizing as he did so that his own distrust and fear had been aroused. The child looked after him, confused. In her pure little heart, she only knew that the elf who now abandoned her seemed less threatening than the one who took her hand firmly and led her away.
In the worst of the carnage his folk met the hardy warriors of the House of the Tree. They had rounded up the wounded left behind by the sons of Fëanor and stood guard over them, less to prevent their escape than to stay the vengeance of others.
"We were betrayed," Galdor said quietly. "Had they come from the north, Oropher's folk would have been upon them before they knew their danger. Had they come from the west, they would have met strong resistance, for the House of the Tree stood against them. But they came by the Fens of Sirion, the most difficult way, and so to the heart of the Havens. You could not have stopped this. The town had taken its worst even before my people could come to its aid.
"They knew. We were betrayed," the elf-lord repeated, looking directly at his King.
A name formed at Ereinion's lips, but he knew he could not speak it. He could not accuse without evidence. Instead, he asked casually, "But who might do so? Who would gain from such treason?"
"I have my thoughts on that, and you will not like them, for he has your friendship. Yet he slew the kindred of my father at Alqualondë - think you that he can escape the Oath of his bloodline?" Galdor's expression was bitter.
"You are mistaken. Do not assume that the son must be as the father."
Galdor only raised his eyebrows. "What would you have done with these?" he asked, gesturing to the prisoners.
"Have their wounds tended. We will take them to Balar, or let them return to their lords as they wish," Ereinion sighed, running agitated fingers through hair loosed by his rapidly fraying braid. These elves he could not hold accountable; the Silmaril was but a bauble to them. Like their victims, they were but pawns in a war they could scarcely understand, a war with meaning only to their princes and to the Powers themselves. In any event, he would not immerse his own hands in the blood of his kindred.
~~~
"You are a hard elf to find." Ereinion moved some papers from a chair in front of the desk and sat down.
"I fear I am not the most popular elf on Balar at the moment," Celebrimbor said quietly, laying down his quill.
"You should know…some believe you betrayed Arvernien."
Celebrimbor sat up suddenly. "Artanáro, you do not believe that?"
The High King looked at him steadily.
"You cannot think…never would I do such a thing."
"I know that. Yet the talk will continue. A scapegoat is needed and they will hold you responsible for the deeds of your house even in your innocence."
Celebrimbor looked away. "Not innocent." The smith stared at his hands. "I adored my father. Everyone did - my mother, Celegorm. He was so…aloof, as though we did not matter to him, and so all the more did we crave his love. And he did love us - more than he knew, I think.
"The Oath changed everything. Alqualondë - for the first time I saw how my father and his brothers were under the spell of that Oath. They were not the same elves I had known all my life. But they were not alone in their guilt. It was slay or be slain." He shuddered. "There is so much blood in an elf."
Ereinion put his hand over his kinsman's trembling fingers.
"I have not wielded a sword since that day."
Ereinion imagined this had hardly pleased Curufin. "That is why you did not go to Tumhalad with my father." [13]
"Do you resent me for that?" The elf raised his eyes to look at his kinsman.
"Celebrimbor, no! You would only have met your death, as did the others." Ereinion sat back. "I have also known such regret. Círdan spoke rightly. Nothing we might have done would have changed my father's fate or that of Nargothrond. We cannot feel guilty for having lived."
The older elf put his hands together, resting his chin on his fingertips as if deep in thought. "Arphenion holds his sword by both ends. Use him as you must, but do not trust him."
~~~
Few mementos had the elves of Hithlum carried away, and though the great house nestled in the hills of Balar attested to the fine stone carving and metalwork of the Noldor, its rooms had still an air of severity. The long main hall glowed with marble flooring under flickering candlelight, its thick stone walls without adornment, smooth and cold. Ereinion, refusing the escort of Arphenion's footman, found the elf-lord in that dim passage.
"Arphenion!"
'Tempting, to ignore that gentle voice,' Arphenion mused. Yet he could not afford such arrogance, he reminded himself. Schooling his features into a bland expression, he turned to greet his unwanted visitor. "My King?"
"If I discover that you had any part in this attack," Ereinion began.
Arphenion adopted a look of injury. "Do use what intelligence you have been given, lord. Was I not with you and the others when we sailed for Balar?"
Ereinion did not wait for him to finish. "Any part, Arphenion. I will see to it that you will suffer as your treachery brought suffering to others."
This threat he found intriguing, but it disturbed him that the young King had so easily determined the truth. Arphenion was neither fool nor martyr. True, he would prefer to see Maedhros sit in Ereinion's place. Yet the attack on Balar had only added refugees to his already full house. As long as Ereinion held the High Kingship, Arphenion could not afford to make an enemy of him - the elf's desire for power would not permit him to sever himself from its source. "Then I am glad I have no worries."
The younger elf looked at him directly, his blue-grey eyes burning into Arphenion. "Know that I am watching."
Perhaps, he mused, he was too quick to dismiss the son.
545 First Age
"They come! Ulumo be praised, they come!"
The halls of Nargothrond faded into the varnished walls of the lighthouse as the elf awoke to a room flooded with bright sunshine. Locating his dressing gown, he slipped into it hurriedly and nearly collided with Círdan in the passage.
"Come quickly, or ye shall miss them. They go north, to Nevrast."
Ereinion decided not to ask who "they" might be at this early hour. He followed the usually unflappable mariner to the gallery and looked to the west. At once, he understood Círdan's excitement. Nearly too far even for his elven eyes, he saw a great fleet of white ships.
"'Tis the host of Valinor," Círdan said, in a reverent whisper. Far below, Ossë splashed to the shore and Ereinion followed Círdan as the older elf hurried to have tidings of the fleet. He hung back slightly, as the Maia cast him a suspicious look; Ossë had not quite decided to trust Círdan's Noldorin foster son. He had assumed the guise of an elf this morning, though his seaweed tresses did not quite match that image.
Círdan already spoke of sending a fleet of his own people to Nevrast, but Ossë discouraged him from this. "You will be needed here, for this war shall bring Beleriand itself to its knees, befouled as it is by Morgoth."
The old elf nodded, disappointed. Long had seemed these years of Morgoth's domination to him. The elf had too much love for his kindred not to see much good in the return of the Noldor; in temperament and skill they had brought great joy to the curious elf. Though he grieved for his old friend Finrod, he felt richer for having known the great King, and he thanked Ulmo for the son he had not believed he would have. Yet he longed for the days of peace, when he sailed under the starlight and Morgoth's minions - what remained of them after the Valar had destroyed Utumno - did not trouble his people. The elves who had so suffered while Valinor closed its ears to their cries would not fight this battle. It had never been theirs to win. Círdan understood this, and resigned himself to waiting, patiently waiting, for that, it seemed, was his place in life.
587 First Age
Ereinion looked about his bedchamber, his belongings long ago packed and taken down to the little rowboat. Taking only what he could carry, he would leave much behind - save his memories of the lighthouse in which he had lived over a century. So much of his childhood had crumbled away, its remains left to rot among the dead. Ossë's cryptic warning had only told them to leave the island, yet Ereinion sensed a finality in Círdan's preparations, and he knew he would not see the little lighthouse again.
Círdan appeared in the doorway. "I feel the same," the elf said simply. Perhaps he anticipated even greater upheaval. Henceforth, his foster-son would come into his own, would build a dwelling worthy of a King, and Círdan would once again have his solitude. He did not fear such a thing, for he had lived alone many years before the young elf had come to him. Yet it would take some getting used to, as it had taken time to adjust to another's presence.
On the docks the Falathrim hurried about, readying the great ships for their final journey. For several days, they had ferried the elves on Balar to the Havens of Sirion, and now only their own folk remained. A mother searched frantically for her child, only to hear his clear voice call from the deck of one of the ships. Her lips opened in a smile that lit her face; suddenly, all she would leave behind seemed of little importance.
The elves who had gone before them had erected a tent village at the Havens as they waited for the ships to bring the rest of their kindred from Balar. To the North, the tents of the Sindar lay scattered over the gentle hill leading down to the marshes of Lisgardh; west of the marshes stood perfectly ordered rows of tents erected by the Noldor. Círdan shook his head in amusement at the sight. They would never be an entirely melded people, for Ilúvatar had not made them so.
A strange elf, not of Balar, met them at the gangplank. "I have come to guide you, for precious little time remains to us."
Círdan realized the elf only appeared to be so. "And what may we call you, aira sailapen?" [14]
The Maia considered this for a moment. "Hmm. You may call me Intyanto." His eyes twinkled as he gave this name, and Círdan found that he liked the Maia instinctively. Like many of his kind, Intyanto had rather odd ideas as to what an elf should look like, and he had assumed a fana with long grey hair, not the silver of Thingol's kin, but grey, as an old man might have. The form he had taken showed the faint lines of age seen on few elves but such very old ones as Círdan himself, and he leaned on a great staff of ash. [15, 16]
Ereinion watched this exchange in silence, made wary by experience.
"You do not trust easily, son of Orodreth," Intyanto observed.
"Trust must be earned," Ereinion answered, somewhat shocked by his insolence, but he met the Maia's keen blue eyes squarely.
"The past can be a good teacher, young elf. Do not misjudge your instincts. They will serve you well." Intyanto looked to the north for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten his companions, and Ereinion looked at Círdan, wondering if they were dismissed. "Yes, well, there is little to be done this evening, though in the north they march, and much shall take place before morning, or I am not a Maia. We must leave at first light."
"But where are we going? And why?"
"We go northeast, as near as I can determine," Intyanto told him the next morning, finally answering one of his questions. Billows of smoke and some unwholesome cloud had shrouded the sun in Beleriand, and in truth, the Maia was not certain of his direction, only that his senses confirmed it was the right one.
"But why?" the young King asked again.
Intyanto shrugged. "Not all is known to me. Our allies have the Enemy sorely pressed, and what is to come will take most of his stain from the circles of the world. And if you continue to pester me with questions, young elf, we may well be caught within it," he grumbled, but Ereinion caught a hint of a smile in his eyes.
The third day of the march dawned with the sky aflame, shrouded in red cloud. Círdan and the Falathrim took this as an ominous sign, for at sea it signaled storm. Urged on by Intyanto the elves had not rested, even as night turned to day and day to night again. The woods around them echoed with terrible cries; evil things lurked within, fleeing their master in his hour of defeat.
The forest hid other secrets - not long after darkness fell on that third day, they passed the camp of the folk of Fëanor, who watched silent and amazed as the great company of elves marched ever northeast. Intyanto knew by this sign they had come far enough, and called a halt.
"Awake, awake!"
Ereinion turned over in his bedroll, deciding that whatever new disaster had come upon them, it hardly needed his aid. The voice grew insistent, and at last he sat up, his eyes still bleary from dreams of water. "Ai, Círdan, what is it?" he queried.
The ancient mariner pointed to the sky. "Look to the north."
There shone the Star of Eärendil, bright enough to pierce the thick clouds. Ereinion had just got his feet under him when a tremor threw both elves to the ground. Others in the camp had risen, and he heard cries of both wonder and fear as the elves reckoned with the Star of Hope and the shaking earth.
Intyanto had not lost his footing, Ereinion saw, and the Maia stood still and silent, looking toward the north, his great staff in hand. He went to stand by the Maia, stumbling now and then as the earth continued to move. A great wind stirred, chasing away the noxious clouds, the stars winking again into existence in the night sky. "A new age dawns, young elf," Intyanto announced. "Melkor is brought to his knees. Come."
Intyanto turned once to make certain the elves followed, and found that they did. 'Confound their soft feet,' he grumbled to himself as he hurried westward.
Now Ereinion was acutely aware of the camp of the Fëanorians. "How long have they been there?" he wondered aloud.
"We passed them before, they have crept nearer to us during the night, while we rested."
Círdan sniffed the air. "The sea!" he said in amazement. At once he understood what had happened, and quickened his steps.
Now Ereinion noticed it, too, and was certain he heard the lapping of water on the shore. "I do not remember this water, yet I am certain we came this way," he said to Intyanto.
"Patience, young elf," he counseled, as they halted by the shores of the water. "We await the dawn."
That looked to be not long in coming, for on the eastern horizon behind them, Anor had finally scaled the heights of the Ered Luin and a golden light reached forth, heralding her return. Moments passed, and the blinding orb flashed over Mt Dolmed, pale light seeping into the forest.
Ereinion looked west again, where the sky was now an intense blue. The sea, dark beneath, seemed to have no end. "Indeed, it ends in Aman," Intyanto said gruffly, reading his thoughts. "Beleriand is no more.
"You have much ahead of you," he continued. "The way to the Undying Lands shall again be open to your people, but not all shall choose that path. To some, it remains closed. Others, many of the young like you, shall remain on these shores out of choice."
Other elves had crept forth in their wake, among them the people of Maedhros and Maglor. The latter stood well apart from their kindred, casting wary glances at Intyanto's great host. Yet none truly thought of retribution on that day, nor even joy and sorrow. No tongue of Beleriand could express their sense of loss, no heart could contain the swell of hope, nor any eyes put forth enough tears for their grief. The elves stood silent before the Sea, the Sea that held in its vast depths their memories, the Sea that lapped the shores of the Blessed Realm.
No, words could not be made to express such exquisite feeling, but a song of regret, given voice by Maglor, rose now as the light waned. The Noldolantë, as it would be called, poured forth with all the pain and sorrow of the elves. The son of Fëanor sang and sang, and still the elves stood, even as Anor sank in fire over the western reaches of the Sea.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien except Arphenion. Translations of Elvish (Sindarin, unless otherwise noted) and additional notes are at the end of the story. Hopefully, I haven't screwed up the Quenya too badly.
Age had come relatively slow to the mortal, but it had come nonetheless. Grey streaked his hair; lines now appeared at the corners of his eyes. He might have passed still for a very old elf, but the truth of his mortality was mirrored in Idril's eyes whenever she looked upon her husband.
"You will be missed," Ereinion said with genuine feeling.
"We leave the folk of Arvernien in the hands of Eärendil and Elwing - they will soon surpass us in their deeds," Tuor predicted.
Ereinion wished he shared Tuor's confidence in the Peredhil. The sea called strongly to the son of Tuor; Eärendil would not settle down willingly into the place of his parents. Nor did Elwing offer much reassurance. Ereinion sensed her distraction, that the glorious Silmaril she bore occupied her thoughts overmuch.
It would be unfair and unkind to speak of his worries. Tuor's mortal life waned; little of it had been easy. The elf's heart wept for Idril's sorrow, inevitable as it seemed. To pass what time they had left to them, far from the troubles of their kindreds, he deemed paltry recompense for all they had given in the service of Gondolin and the Valar. [1]
"I pray you have the forbearance of Ossë," Ereinion said instead.
"Have faith, Tórnë. Keep your hope in the mercy of the Valar - they will deliver your people and mine."
534 First Age
The message arrived by way of a nervous young elf of the people of Maedhros.
'Know that we bear no ill will toward Elwing and her people. Our swiftest protection shall be at her command should the forces of our common enemy be called against the folk of Arvernien. Yet we remain bound to our oath, and will go to such lengths as we must to regain that which belongs rightfully to the sons of my father.'
Ereinion tapped the letter thoughtfully against his hand, considering the message and its warning. He did not entirely understand what the Fëanorians expected of him. He could not by force take the Silmaril from Elwing; he was not inclined, in any case, to do so on behalf of the Kinslayers and thus see his fate and conscience joined to their guilt.
Círdan had received his own missive, of much the same content. Ereinion laid the letters side by side, both written in a somewhat clumsy script. The Noldo guessed it to be the hand of Maedhros. "What are your feelings on this?" he asked.
"What are yours?" Círdan countered.
Ereinion frowned. "I think they hardly matter. Elwing is not of my people, and even if she were, I would overstep my authority if I forced my judgment upon her. She must decide for herself whether the suit of Maedhros has merit."
Círdan stood silent; Ereinion realized he had not given the right answer. "If she can make the decision," he said finally. He wondered if the Silmaril had come to mean more to Elwing than even her children. The walls of her house heard little laughter. Still, he could not justify taking the jewel from her.
Círdan shook his head. "You think only of Elwing."
The younger elf bit his lip, delving deeper. Elwing's decision must affect all the folk at Arvernien - some of whom were his own people. Now the blade turned - could he permit her to keep what might endanger those whom he had a responsibility to protect? Celeborn's words came back to him. "By their jewel and ours shall come the hope of both our peoples."
He thought he had at last the answer Círdan sought. "It must be returned to the Valar, but Maedhros will not do this," he guessed.
Círdan smiled. "A wise ruler must think always of the future, though it brings discomfort or danger to the present." His smile faded and his sea-grey eyes grew serious. "Do not underestimate the warning of this message. Maedhros will attack - ye can have certainty in that. We can only hope that we will be ready." The mariner trailed off, some far-off vision turning his thoughts away from his foster-son.
Ereinion sat patiently, watching the expression on Círdan's face as it changed, and felt a stirring of fear; what the ancient elf saw upset him. At length, Círdan spoke again. "No doubt Elwing and others have also received the letters, and have their own opinions on the matter."
Celeborn soon sent word of a council to discuss the fate of Elwing's Silmaril. 'I suspect you are of like mind, my kinsman, and agree that the Silmaril must be kept though it shall cost us dearly,' the Sindarin lord wrote. 'Therefore your presence at the council I find indispensable, as opinions on the matter here in Arvernien are divided sharply and fear too easily overwhelms reason.'
Looking about the circle, his eyes came to rest on an elf he did not know, though he did not look altogether unfamiliar.
"That is my cousin, Oropher, lord of the Laegrim," Celeborn told him. "And one whose support in this we are not likely to gain." [2]
The elf bore a resemblance to his kinsman in his features and silver hair, but where Celeborn was elegant, Oropher was austere, cloaked in the simple garb of the Laiquendi. The elf's pale grey eyes met his for a moment, hard and unfriendly.
By custom, the townspeople had the first say, and most spoke in favor of keeping the jewel. Many stared at Elwing as they spoke, and Ereinion realized that they saw not the lady but the bright jewel that hung at her neck. He could not but wonder if they should not rid themselves of this poisoned gem and the thralldom it cast upon the populace.
"I will be cursed rather than see this gem in the hands of the sons of Fëanor, and defend it by all the unspeakable acts they have committed in its name," a dark-haired Sinda announced, restoring Ereinion's attention to the meeting. The elf was the last of the common folk who wished to speak, and silence fell before Galdor stood.
"Vengeance cannot guide us in this. Let the Silmaril go, lest more blood be shed." The elf had followed his mother's kin into Beleriand, but the blood of Alqualondë beat ever in his Telerin heart. He would not forget what Fëanor had done to his father's people. "I have no wish to take up arms against my kindred, yet remorse will not stay the swords of the Fëanorians."
"Long ago," Oropher began, "the Enemy twisted our ancestors into a creature that would kill without remorse, that would turn even on its own kind in jealousy and covetousness. You know of what I speak. Yet, what now separates the House of Fëanor from Morgoth's abomination? What evil will they not do to regain this jewel?" he asked, gesturing at the Silmaril. "It works its malice upon us even now, as we hold it beyond all reason. We have more to fear from the Goldamir than the wrath of its claimants." [3]
"May I be heard?" All eyes turned on the daughter of Dior. "We are foolish to give up this gem so easily. In Arvernien we have prospered; the forces of Morgoth do not trouble us. We have made a peace out of our troubles. The light of Elbereth lives in this gem, and not even the fetid brow of Morgoth could dim that light. It brings us fortune, even now." Some murmurs of agreement followed her words.
"You may think so, brennilen, but I would urge otherwise. Naught but ill has ever come of those gems. It is said they are tainted by the Enemy, but I say they were tainted before that. I know more of this than any of you, for I have held them in my own hands. My grandfather's pride and obsession tainted them long before Morgoth took them. Let my father's brothers have it, and be done with it." [4]
Oropher's eyes narrowed. He had not at first noticed the quiet Fëanorian who sat in the shadows, very likely to escape notice. Ereinion could see from the sour look on the elf-lord's face that he was not much pleased to find himself in agreement with Celebrimbor.
Arphenion stood, shaking his long, dark hair behind him, as he regarded the assembly with the lechyl eyes of an exiled lord of the Noldor. From the elevated heels of his boots to his opulent robes in the dark blue of Fingolfin's house, his appearance, the elf hoped, would intimidate if his words failed to do so. "That which was stolen remains stolen. The Silmaril rightfully belongs to Fëanor's descendants." [5]
Celeborn refused this reasoning. "By the wicked things done by the sons of Fëanor, not least the murder of Dior, they have dispossessed themselves of any inheritance."
"Or so the junior house of the Noldor would have it, for it suits them to dismiss the claims of the eldest blood."
"Likewise did my father speak when the crown passed to híredh Fingon, Arphenion," Celebrimbor snapped, his face and voice leaving little doubt of his paternity. "Not all the Noldor see it thus." [6]
"The crown was certainly never meant to pass to the Moriquendi," Arphenion countered, undaunted. "If we are to speak of evil deeds, let us not forget the shameful loss of Tol Sirion." He met the eyes of the High King without recoil.
"I advise you to speak not of what you do not know," Ereinion said, a warning note in his soft voice.
"I knew your father well, aryon Artahéro. What fortitude he lacked when a youngling in Aman, he did not find here in Beleriand. It was a bitter loss, the pass of Sirion, and the people of the North suffered much for it. Ni á avatyarat ai i yondo aranion lá nin antaro estel." (Forgive me if the son of kings does not give me hope.) [7, 8]
Slow to anger, Ereinion felt the hot rush of blood in his cheeks as he answered the elf-lord. "Forgive me if I ask whether Fingon knew your loyalties were so easily bought. 'At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him, and he fought with Gothmog… .' Where, pray tell, were you when your lord fell, Arphenion?" Ereinion knew well that the dead King's steward, cut off from the main host early, had fought bravely beside the Falathrim. Yet so too had his father stood against Sauron in a battle of wills that allowed the folk of Tol Sirion to escape unmolested. [9]
"Is our purpose here to discuss the Silmaril or to give the Gelydh a new audience for their quarrels?" Oropher murmured derisively.
Círdan touched his foster-son's arm in a calming gesture. At this moment, he found himself in full agreement with the difficult Sinda. He cast a look upon Fingon's steward that would have given pause to the aforementioned balrog. "Arphenion, keep a civil tongue in your head. Quetil Tarennalyava." He looked at Ereinion expectantly. "How do ye find in this matter?" [10]
The High King drew a deep breath. "We cannot but keep the Silmaril and hope that we can protect Arvernien should Maedhros prove true to his word. It belongs to the Valar, and to the Valar it must be returned. Yet all chances of this are lost should it be given to my kinsmen. We trust in Ulmo that his designs shall yet bear fruit, and the path to Valinor made straight."
Both Arphenion and Oropher stood as if to speak, but Círdan held up his hand. "Dispossessed are the sons of Fëanor, of their inheritance and of the Silmarilli," Círdan intoned. "The jewel shall not be given up."
Ereinion made haste to escape the hostility that still hung in the air of the hall, its tendrils snaking along his spine and clinging to his heart. He stood outside in a chill winter drizzle. He felt weary; as always when he came to the mainland, he found no rest in his dreams, and the making of enemies had proved tiring work. He closed his eyes as the rain washed the tension from his body.
"Tar Etyangoldion - that is what they call you, no?"
Ereinion decided that Quenya could be an exceedingly ugly tongue, particularly when spoken by a sarcastic Sinda.
Before he could answer, Oropher spoke again. "Know that I hold you responsible for what shall come to pass. They are your people, your kin." The elf-lord turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving a bitter taste of resentment in the mouth of his adversary.
"And yet," Ereinion murmured, "we are also kin."
538 First Age
"Go now, and rouse the guard on Balar - we follow," Círdan exhorted. Ereinion, roused from his bed by the rapid chatter of the dolphins, saw the sleek animals turn at once from the lighthouse, the gravity of their tidings evident in their swift departure. Natural gossips, the dolphins had often entertained the young Noldo with their tales, though they strayed occasionally into the scandalous and hardly credible. On this dark night, however, under a heavy cloud Ithil could not pierce, Ereinion felt their urgency. The worried frown on his foster-father's face told him something terrible had happened. "The sons of Fëanor have reached Arvernien. Already, I fear, we come too late, but we must do what we can."
On Balar, the Falathrim loaded their fastest vessels for departure. Ereinion moved stiffly, unused to the mail he wore, and gripped his spear tightly, his nerves crackling with tension. In his sheltered life, his spear had pierced naught but fish. Without enthusiasm, he followed in Círdan's wake as the mariner hurried toward his ship.
A voice hailed him as he reached the gangplank, and he turned to meet Celebrimbor. "I thought you should have a proper shield."
The smith had overlaid the thin shell with silver, and from the silver had cut the stars of Ereinion's device, laying bare the white elven steel. Surprisingly light, the King knew it would hold strong. Therein lay the merit of the Noldorin alloy, first made by Curufin, its secrets now held by his heir. "A proper shield? Celebrimbor, this is too beautiful to carry into battle."
"So long as you use it well," his kinsman smiled.
Ereinion read the Tengwar inscription at the top. "Gil-galad?"
"You have not heard the people call you this? For your eyes, like starlight. You are in need of an epessë. 'Ereinion' really does not suit you anymore. [11]
"Come back, Artanáro," he added, laying a hand on the younger elf's cheek. "Arphenion looks only for an excuse for Maedhros to claim the crown."
"But why?" The ignobility of a king without country hardly seemed worth such strife.
Celebrimbor shrugged. "It is no secret that Fingon was close in friendship with Maedhros. Arphenion is restless - he wants war with Morgoth."
He heard the warning in his kinsman's voice, yet there was little he could do. He needed Arphenion, and Fingon's steward knew this. The elf-lord had military experience the young King utterly lacked. Even now, suspicious as might seem his loyalties, Arphenion had raised on short notice the warriors among their people and now spoke to Círdan's captain about the landing at the Havens and how best to repel the Fëanorians.
When at last they reached the mainland, the elf found he had little need for spear or shield. They had come too late. The sons of Fëanor had fled. The Silmaril had disappeared; Elwing was gone, her children taken. A tale quickly passed among the Falathrim, so garbled when it reached Ereinion that he thought of the children's game, Secrets. The daughter of Dior had dived into the sea from a second-story window - on this, all the storytellers agreed. The remainder was strange - by some accounts, Elwing had turned into a bird and flown west bearing the Silmaril.
Círdan accepted this fantastic story without surprise. "Ulumo's plans now come near to their end. Either they succeed and the Bali will have mercy upon us, or they fail and all is lost."
Yet now the remnant at the mouth of the Sirion must concern them. The host of Maedhros had left the Havens in ruin, and the survivors had little wish to remain in the shadow of their shattered home. The elves of Arvernien had proved a remarkable people, remaking their lives in defiance of all they had lost. Now treachery of their own kindred - not for the first time - had taken what little remained to them, and Ereinion saw despair in many faces. Anger, he saw also, particularly among the Iathrim, twice subjected to the Fëanorians' madness. Bitter words refused Círdan's invitation to remove to Balar, bitter words refused to live there with the Golodh king.
Arphenion had already gathered a brigade to stop the spread of the fires, and Ereinion took charge of the rest of the Noldor to gather the wounded and do what they might for them. Among the wounded, Ereinion realized, they would have to count those too stunned and grieving to help themselves, and he saw many of these - husbands who sat unseeing, unhearing over their wives' lifeless bodies, children terrified into mute silence, hidden in every conceivable small space.
Ereinion's search led him to a little house, cheerily decorated as though its inhabitants wished to put their terrible flight to Arvernien behind them. The mother lay cruelly slain in the doorway, her eyes fixed forever in an expression of disbelief. Inside he found no survivors but a small child, who came to him trustingly. He started to lead the little elf out of the house, through the garden so as to avoid the grisly horror of the front doorway, when a voice stopped him.
"We'll take care of our own, Dagwenir. Your kind is not wanted here." Ereinion winced at the appellation; he felt the hate and pain that flowed from the other elf in waves. He wished to affirm his innocence, yet knew it would not make a difference. [12]
He dropped the elf-child's hand and backed slowly away, realizing as he did so that his own distrust and fear had been aroused. The child looked after him, confused. In her pure little heart, she only knew that the elf who now abandoned her seemed less threatening than the one who took her hand firmly and led her away.
In the worst of the carnage his folk met the hardy warriors of the House of the Tree. They had rounded up the wounded left behind by the sons of Fëanor and stood guard over them, less to prevent their escape than to stay the vengeance of others.
"We were betrayed," Galdor said quietly. "Had they come from the north, Oropher's folk would have been upon them before they knew their danger. Had they come from the west, they would have met strong resistance, for the House of the Tree stood against them. But they came by the Fens of Sirion, the most difficult way, and so to the heart of the Havens. You could not have stopped this. The town had taken its worst even before my people could come to its aid.
"They knew. We were betrayed," the elf-lord repeated, looking directly at his King.
A name formed at Ereinion's lips, but he knew he could not speak it. He could not accuse without evidence. Instead, he asked casually, "But who might do so? Who would gain from such treason?"
"I have my thoughts on that, and you will not like them, for he has your friendship. Yet he slew the kindred of my father at Alqualondë - think you that he can escape the Oath of his bloodline?" Galdor's expression was bitter.
"You are mistaken. Do not assume that the son must be as the father."
Galdor only raised his eyebrows. "What would you have done with these?" he asked, gesturing to the prisoners.
"Have their wounds tended. We will take them to Balar, or let them return to their lords as they wish," Ereinion sighed, running agitated fingers through hair loosed by his rapidly fraying braid. These elves he could not hold accountable; the Silmaril was but a bauble to them. Like their victims, they were but pawns in a war they could scarcely understand, a war with meaning only to their princes and to the Powers themselves. In any event, he would not immerse his own hands in the blood of his kindred.
"I fear I am not the most popular elf on Balar at the moment," Celebrimbor said quietly, laying down his quill.
"You should know…some believe you betrayed Arvernien."
Celebrimbor sat up suddenly. "Artanáro, you do not believe that?"
The High King looked at him steadily.
"You cannot think…never would I do such a thing."
"I know that. Yet the talk will continue. A scapegoat is needed and they will hold you responsible for the deeds of your house even in your innocence."
Celebrimbor looked away. "Not innocent." The smith stared at his hands. "I adored my father. Everyone did - my mother, Celegorm. He was so…aloof, as though we did not matter to him, and so all the more did we crave his love. And he did love us - more than he knew, I think.
"The Oath changed everything. Alqualondë - for the first time I saw how my father and his brothers were under the spell of that Oath. They were not the same elves I had known all my life. But they were not alone in their guilt. It was slay or be slain." He shuddered. "There is so much blood in an elf."
Ereinion put his hand over his kinsman's trembling fingers.
"I have not wielded a sword since that day."
Ereinion imagined this had hardly pleased Curufin. "That is why you did not go to Tumhalad with my father." [13]
"Do you resent me for that?" The elf raised his eyes to look at his kinsman.
"Celebrimbor, no! You would only have met your death, as did the others." Ereinion sat back. "I have also known such regret. Círdan spoke rightly. Nothing we might have done would have changed my father's fate or that of Nargothrond. We cannot feel guilty for having lived."
The older elf put his hands together, resting his chin on his fingertips as if deep in thought. "Arphenion holds his sword by both ends. Use him as you must, but do not trust him."
"Arphenion!"
'Tempting, to ignore that gentle voice,' Arphenion mused. Yet he could not afford such arrogance, he reminded himself. Schooling his features into a bland expression, he turned to greet his unwanted visitor. "My King?"
"If I discover that you had any part in this attack," Ereinion began.
Arphenion adopted a look of injury. "Do use what intelligence you have been given, lord. Was I not with you and the others when we sailed for Balar?"
Ereinion did not wait for him to finish. "Any part, Arphenion. I will see to it that you will suffer as your treachery brought suffering to others."
This threat he found intriguing, but it disturbed him that the young King had so easily determined the truth. Arphenion was neither fool nor martyr. True, he would prefer to see Maedhros sit in Ereinion's place. Yet the attack on Balar had only added refugees to his already full house. As long as Ereinion held the High Kingship, Arphenion could not afford to make an enemy of him - the elf's desire for power would not permit him to sever himself from its source. "Then I am glad I have no worries."
The younger elf looked at him directly, his blue-grey eyes burning into Arphenion. "Know that I am watching."
Perhaps, he mused, he was too quick to dismiss the son.
545 First Age
"They come! Ulumo be praised, they come!"
The halls of Nargothrond faded into the varnished walls of the lighthouse as the elf awoke to a room flooded with bright sunshine. Locating his dressing gown, he slipped into it hurriedly and nearly collided with Círdan in the passage.
"Come quickly, or ye shall miss them. They go north, to Nevrast."
Ereinion decided not to ask who "they" might be at this early hour. He followed the usually unflappable mariner to the gallery and looked to the west. At once, he understood Círdan's excitement. Nearly too far even for his elven eyes, he saw a great fleet of white ships.
"'Tis the host of Valinor," Círdan said, in a reverent whisper. Far below, Ossë splashed to the shore and Ereinion followed Círdan as the older elf hurried to have tidings of the fleet. He hung back slightly, as the Maia cast him a suspicious look; Ossë had not quite decided to trust Círdan's Noldorin foster son. He had assumed the guise of an elf this morning, though his seaweed tresses did not quite match that image.
Círdan already spoke of sending a fleet of his own people to Nevrast, but Ossë discouraged him from this. "You will be needed here, for this war shall bring Beleriand itself to its knees, befouled as it is by Morgoth."
The old elf nodded, disappointed. Long had seemed these years of Morgoth's domination to him. The elf had too much love for his kindred not to see much good in the return of the Noldor; in temperament and skill they had brought great joy to the curious elf. Though he grieved for his old friend Finrod, he felt richer for having known the great King, and he thanked Ulmo for the son he had not believed he would have. Yet he longed for the days of peace, when he sailed under the starlight and Morgoth's minions - what remained of them after the Valar had destroyed Utumno - did not trouble his people. The elves who had so suffered while Valinor closed its ears to their cries would not fight this battle. It had never been theirs to win. Círdan understood this, and resigned himself to waiting, patiently waiting, for that, it seemed, was his place in life.
587 First Age
Ereinion looked about his bedchamber, his belongings long ago packed and taken down to the little rowboat. Taking only what he could carry, he would leave much behind - save his memories of the lighthouse in which he had lived over a century. So much of his childhood had crumbled away, its remains left to rot among the dead. Ossë's cryptic warning had only told them to leave the island, yet Ereinion sensed a finality in Círdan's preparations, and he knew he would not see the little lighthouse again.
Círdan appeared in the doorway. "I feel the same," the elf said simply. Perhaps he anticipated even greater upheaval. Henceforth, his foster-son would come into his own, would build a dwelling worthy of a King, and Círdan would once again have his solitude. He did not fear such a thing, for he had lived alone many years before the young elf had come to him. Yet it would take some getting used to, as it had taken time to adjust to another's presence.
On the docks the Falathrim hurried about, readying the great ships for their final journey. For several days, they had ferried the elves on Balar to the Havens of Sirion, and now only their own folk remained. A mother searched frantically for her child, only to hear his clear voice call from the deck of one of the ships. Her lips opened in a smile that lit her face; suddenly, all she would leave behind seemed of little importance.
The elves who had gone before them had erected a tent village at the Havens as they waited for the ships to bring the rest of their kindred from Balar. To the North, the tents of the Sindar lay scattered over the gentle hill leading down to the marshes of Lisgardh; west of the marshes stood perfectly ordered rows of tents erected by the Noldor. Círdan shook his head in amusement at the sight. They would never be an entirely melded people, for Ilúvatar had not made them so.
A strange elf, not of Balar, met them at the gangplank. "I have come to guide you, for precious little time remains to us."
Círdan realized the elf only appeared to be so. "And what may we call you, aira sailapen?" [14]
The Maia considered this for a moment. "Hmm. You may call me Intyanto." His eyes twinkled as he gave this name, and Círdan found that he liked the Maia instinctively. Like many of his kind, Intyanto had rather odd ideas as to what an elf should look like, and he had assumed a fana with long grey hair, not the silver of Thingol's kin, but grey, as an old man might have. The form he had taken showed the faint lines of age seen on few elves but such very old ones as Círdan himself, and he leaned on a great staff of ash. [15, 16]
Ereinion watched this exchange in silence, made wary by experience.
"You do not trust easily, son of Orodreth," Intyanto observed.
"Trust must be earned," Ereinion answered, somewhat shocked by his insolence, but he met the Maia's keen blue eyes squarely.
"The past can be a good teacher, young elf. Do not misjudge your instincts. They will serve you well." Intyanto looked to the north for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten his companions, and Ereinion looked at Círdan, wondering if they were dismissed. "Yes, well, there is little to be done this evening, though in the north they march, and much shall take place before morning, or I am not a Maia. We must leave at first light."
"But where are we going? And why?"
"We go northeast, as near as I can determine," Intyanto told him the next morning, finally answering one of his questions. Billows of smoke and some unwholesome cloud had shrouded the sun in Beleriand, and in truth, the Maia was not certain of his direction, only that his senses confirmed it was the right one.
"But why?" the young King asked again.
Intyanto shrugged. "Not all is known to me. Our allies have the Enemy sorely pressed, and what is to come will take most of his stain from the circles of the world. And if you continue to pester me with questions, young elf, we may well be caught within it," he grumbled, but Ereinion caught a hint of a smile in his eyes.
The third day of the march dawned with the sky aflame, shrouded in red cloud. Círdan and the Falathrim took this as an ominous sign, for at sea it signaled storm. Urged on by Intyanto the elves had not rested, even as night turned to day and day to night again. The woods around them echoed with terrible cries; evil things lurked within, fleeing their master in his hour of defeat.
The forest hid other secrets - not long after darkness fell on that third day, they passed the camp of the folk of Fëanor, who watched silent and amazed as the great company of elves marched ever northeast. Intyanto knew by this sign they had come far enough, and called a halt.
"Awake, awake!"
Ereinion turned over in his bedroll, deciding that whatever new disaster had come upon them, it hardly needed his aid. The voice grew insistent, and at last he sat up, his eyes still bleary from dreams of water. "Ai, Círdan, what is it?" he queried.
The ancient mariner pointed to the sky. "Look to the north."
There shone the Star of Eärendil, bright enough to pierce the thick clouds. Ereinion had just got his feet under him when a tremor threw both elves to the ground. Others in the camp had risen, and he heard cries of both wonder and fear as the elves reckoned with the Star of Hope and the shaking earth.
Intyanto had not lost his footing, Ereinion saw, and the Maia stood still and silent, looking toward the north, his great staff in hand. He went to stand by the Maia, stumbling now and then as the earth continued to move. A great wind stirred, chasing away the noxious clouds, the stars winking again into existence in the night sky. "A new age dawns, young elf," Intyanto announced. "Melkor is brought to his knees. Come."
Intyanto turned once to make certain the elves followed, and found that they did. 'Confound their soft feet,' he grumbled to himself as he hurried westward.
Now Ereinion was acutely aware of the camp of the Fëanorians. "How long have they been there?" he wondered aloud.
"We passed them before, they have crept nearer to us during the night, while we rested."
Círdan sniffed the air. "The sea!" he said in amazement. At once he understood what had happened, and quickened his steps.
Now Ereinion noticed it, too, and was certain he heard the lapping of water on the shore. "I do not remember this water, yet I am certain we came this way," he said to Intyanto.
"Patience, young elf," he counseled, as they halted by the shores of the water. "We await the dawn."
That looked to be not long in coming, for on the eastern horizon behind them, Anor had finally scaled the heights of the Ered Luin and a golden light reached forth, heralding her return. Moments passed, and the blinding orb flashed over Mt Dolmed, pale light seeping into the forest.
Ereinion looked west again, where the sky was now an intense blue. The sea, dark beneath, seemed to have no end. "Indeed, it ends in Aman," Intyanto said gruffly, reading his thoughts. "Beleriand is no more.
"You have much ahead of you," he continued. "The way to the Undying Lands shall again be open to your people, but not all shall choose that path. To some, it remains closed. Others, many of the young like you, shall remain on these shores out of choice."
Other elves had crept forth in their wake, among them the people of Maedhros and Maglor. The latter stood well apart from their kindred, casting wary glances at Intyanto's great host. Yet none truly thought of retribution on that day, nor even joy and sorrow. No tongue of Beleriand could express their sense of loss, no heart could contain the swell of hope, nor any eyes put forth enough tears for their grief. The elves stood silent before the Sea, the Sea that held in its vast depths their memories, the Sea that lapped the shores of the Blessed Realm.
No, words could not be made to express such exquisite feeling, but a song of regret, given voice by Maglor, rose now as the light waned. The Noldolantë, as it would be called, poured forth with all the pain and sorrow of the elves. The son of Fëanor sang and sang, and still the elves stood, even as Anor sank in fire over the western reaches of the Sea.
- [1]The elf's heart wept for Idril's sorrow, inevitable as it seemed.
- I'm a firm believer in Tolkien's 'speculation' that they found Valinor and that Eru rewarded Tuor with Elven immortality.
- [2]'That is my cousin, Oropher, lord of the Laegrim'
- A couple of lines in LOTR imply that Celeborn is kin to Legolas; that Oropher was associated with the Green Elves in the First Age is possible, given his roots in Doriath and that he later becomes king of the Green Elves' eastern kindred. He was certainly not fond of the Noldor. (ref. Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn')
- [3]Goldamir
- Silmaril - lit. 'Noldo-jewel (Doriathrin) (ref. The Lost Road, 'Etymologies')
- [4]brennilen
- my lady
- [5]lechyl
- flaming - from the plural participle of the verb lacha-
- [6]híredh Fingon
- your lord Fingon
- [7]aryon Artahéro
- heir of Artaher (Q) - I've used Orodreth as the more familiar Sindarin name, but Tolkien changed the name late - Orodreth was first said to be altered from Sindarin Rodreth, but later the Sindarin name was changed to Arothir, from Quenya Artaher. (ref. The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 350 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [8]'Ni á avatyarat ai i yondo aranion lá nin antaro estel.'
- 'Forgive me if the son of kings does not give me hope.' (Q) - Tar refers to a king of a people; aran refers to a king of a place. Orodreth was an aran, as were Angrod and Finarfin (Arphenion would not know that Finarfin was now High King of the Noldor in Aman). ai, 'if' is Neo-Quenya (ref. www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm, 'Parma Penyane Quettaron v2.3')
- [9]'At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him, and he fought with Gothmog… .'
- (ref. The Silmarillion p 230 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
- [10]Quetil Tarennalyava
- 'You speak to your (High) King.' Q - We can suppose that Círdan might have learned Quenya from Finrod, and he seems curious enough that he would want to learn it (and independent enough that he would not give much thought to Thingol's prohibition of the language). Círdan uses Quenya here as a counter to Arphenion's wordplay.
- [11]'You have not heard the people call you that? For your eyes, like starlight.'
- I've taken a sort of mixed stand on the name, 'Gil-galad'. Tolkien originally gave it the meaning 'starlight' (ref. The Lost Road, 'Etymologies', The War of the Jewels p 242 pub. Houghton Mifflin). Here it came from gil, 'star' and calad, 'light'. calad was lenited to galad, hence Gil-galad. In The War of the Jewels it is said that his mother gave him the name 'for the brightness of his eye' However, a second interpretation was possible - there is a Sindarin genitive that is formed by lack of lenition and a second, related stem to KAL: GAL. Both stems mean 'shine' at their most basic meaning. Tolkien took advantage of this in his revision, creating a word not found in the Etymologies: galad, 'radiance'. Thus, the name came to have the meaning 'Star of Radiance' (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, #347 p 426 pub. Houghton Mifflin; The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 347 pub. Houghton Mifflin). This was obviously Tolkien's last word on the subject, but I've used the earlier interpretation. The trouble with earning the name from his shield is that he didn't fight in any battles until the War of the Elves and Sauron. On the other hand, the name seemed too grown-up for a small child.
- [12]Dagwenir
- Kinslayers - lacking a word for Kinslayers in Sindarin and Quenya, I created this word for another fic (from dag, to slay + gwenyr, kin + dîr, agential ending [the d- seems to drop off after -n, ex. curunír])
- [13]"That is why you did not go to Tumhalad with my father."
- Not a canon fact, but it would explain how Celebrimbor escaped the annihilation of Orodreth's army.
- [14]aira sailapen
- holy wise one (Old Sindarin) - from aer, 'holy' (ai usually became ae in Mature Sindarin; -a as the OS adjectival ending from CE -á) + sael, 'wise' + pen, 'one'.
- [15]Intyanto
- guess-giver (Q) - based on Incánus, which as near as I can figure includes the root INK, 'guess'. (ref. LOTR p 655 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [16]fana
- physical appearance of a Maia or Vala (Q)