Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Thingol muddles the Noldor lords’ disturbingly similar names. Diplomatic ruin? Not with Círdan to the rescue!

“I did it again. It is nauseating.” Thingol rubbed his brow. “I sent my good wishes to Fingon on the birth of his son.”

“Quite gracious of you!” said Círdan. “But does politeness always cause you nausea?”

“That is not the worst. Fingolfin, Finarfin. Which is husband to Eärwen my niece?”

Thingol waved his hand. “And once I summoned Aegnor and Angrod and named them Amras and
Amrod.”

“If you’d only get out more often… but I know you won’t… Actually, I have an idea.”

And three hours later he returned, his silver hair frizzled and his fingers stained black.

“Rhymes fasten to the mind, yes? Well then, here’s the solution to your problem.” Círdan pulled out a slip of paper, cleared his throat and began.

These are the sons of Finwë:
Who was a great king-y
(To rhyme with Finwë)
Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin
(The Ar that married Eärwen).

Fëanor’s sons are seven:
A bothersome brethren
(You say)
Two are the M, three are the C,
And two are the A.
Of the A’s (they say)
They Am.

Fingolfin’s sons are two:
Fingon, brash and blue
(Not in skin but in emblem)
Turgon, cloistered and can-do
(There’s spatty Aredhel too)
To them, be Gon
(Say you).

Finarfin’s sons are four:
Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor,
And Artanis, the daughter
(She listens at the door)
Rods they do not abhor
(Save poor Aegnor).

And that is the house of Finwë
The sons are far too many
So if still you can’t recall,
Don’t be cross
(Applause).

Thingol waited till the Lord of the Falas had shut the door. He took up the paper and began to study.

3 - Lavender's Blue

Círdan chats with the blue-eyed, perfumed ex-lieutenant of Morgoth.

Ereinion paced his friend’s study, pausing to glare at the rain hitting the window. He muttered, “Asking for my audience. The sheer impudence.”

He turned to his sole listener.

“It wouldn’t be right to meet him. It would look like I’m sanctioning him.”

Círdan grunted. For four days clouds had burst and for four days he had been moored to his chair. His feet itched for the shipyard. He’d constructed a ship in his mind, more slender, faster and stronger than any before, or so he supposed. He’d not the opportunity to envision its niceties. That morning Ereinion had arrived in Mithlond and had talked ever since.

Ereinion looked back out the window. “Maybe the rain will drive him off.”

“I doubt it,” said Círdan.

“But I would like to see him, just to get a better measure of him. Not to sanction him, you understand.”

“Of course,” Círdan said faithfully.

“But if what I’ve heard is enough… and not those praises of his wisdom and charity. He appears suddenly, with no one to vouch for him except himself… and all these young ones listening to his promises of wisdom and glory like that in the days of the Trees over the sea… forming cults and I know not what… it all smells wrong! No! No concession should come from me, it would be twisted.”

“Elrond saw him in Eregion,” Círdan pressed. Ereinion was besieged by his generous nature. He disliked passing judgment, though once he did, he did not waver in its execution. Círdan hoped he could tip him over that edge.

“Elrond. His kindest words were--” Ereinion cleared his throat. “But now I’ve come to my point. What have you to say about him?”

“Nothing substantial.” Círdan yawned and stretched his legs. “If the matter bothers you so much, I will go.”

Ereinion frowned.

“I can settle both our curiosities without causing a fuss – I am not a king and the youths ignore me.” Círdan added, “I’ll wear a disguise.”

“You and your disguises! Well,” Ereinion began and lost the course of his thought. He began to tap his right elbow with his left fingers, which was a hopeful sign.

“Whatever answer your wisdom demands you to give to this fellow, someone must deliver it. Besides, young one.” Círdan stood, towering over the other by an inch. “You should show deference for your elder’s whims.”

Ereinion stepped back, as though overcome with terror. “Very well, grandfather, go! Use your judgment. Tell that charlatan to leave or return to tell me how wrong I was. Lord of Gifts indeed!”

As soon as his horse could be saddled, Círdan galloped from the harbor-city, now Aerdin, an inquisitive elf of the havens. The rain pursued him every leg of the journey, beating the roads into a thick black sludge. His splattered mount soon ran through its whole library of equestrian epithets. The deluge only let up when he came to the bounds of Lindon.

Ereinion had forbidden Annatar’s stepping inside Lindon. Perforce the king’s law, Annatar’s camp sat not in Lindon and neither outside, but right on the line between two border stones. And right off the road, it was hard not to miss. The tents were huge and luxurious, numerous enough for a small and well-fed army. Throngs of elves scurried about, fetching this, doing that, talking to whomever. There were overwhelmingly young Noldor of Celebrimbor’s folk, though he saw that some, by their dress, were pilgrims from Lindon. They took his horse, who gave a thankful whinny. Then they showed him to the grandest tent and told him to wait; Annatar was engaged.

Very, very engaged. Círdan stood ten minutes, rocking on his toes, saddle sore and pasted with mud. Even the spares in his bag were mire-soaked. Ulmo, of course, had a pitiless sense of humor. Finally he sat himself on the corner of a crimson and gold pillow, feeling unwanted in the fabulous but symmetric display of cushions, rugs, and urns, all glowing with jewels and brilliant textiles. The dyes on the cushion he was ruining likely were worth more than his house in Harlond.

Musicians stowed away in a corner plucked gently at strings. At one point, maidens in borderline modest dress served wine. Before sipping, he inspected the cup, a weighty silver thing crusted with glittering stones.

“Charlatan,” he thought, mimicking Ereinion’s word. “Well, these are real.” He clicked his fingernail on the gems.

The splendor of the tent began to make him dizzy. He shut his eyes and went over what he knew of Annatar. A lot of nothing. Of him even Ulmo had said “who?” His chin nodded. The skeletal hull of his dream ship soared over him.

The flap rustled. Círdan cracked his eyelids and stretched to his feet.

And he gawked. Annatar had a commanding presence. Tall and well-built. His hair was wavy and dark, spilling around his shoulders, giving off a blue sheen in the lamplight. His pleasant face was beardless; under his smiling lips, the teeth were white and straight. He was wrapped in blazing blue cloth, cut in the latest fashion and matching with eerie precision his sapphire blue eyes. His hand sparkled with rings and his head provided space for a thick circlet shaped like a ring flowering flames.

And Arien above! He smelt of lavender.

Círdan proffered a hand. Annatar gave the mud a quick survey and daintily, keeping his long blue sleeves clear, grasped it. Annatar spoke first.

“Aerdin, is it?”

“Yes. You are, I suspect, a busy fellow. I wished only to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Annatar purred.

“Congratulations on your new situation in Ost-in-Edhil,” Círdan continued. “Most impressive. Celebrimbor must think well of you, and he’s no fool. If he’s any flaw, it’s that he too greatly loves his tongs and hammers.”

A humble dip of eyes. “Lord Celebrimbor was insistent.”

“Still, it is singular.” Círdan beamed. “Celebrimbor is notorious for taking only the best into his forges and it’s unheard of for him to give an outsider reign of his smithies.“ The maidens poured two new glasses of wine. “One does not reach the top of the pillar on one’s own. May I ask how you came to it? I’ve never come across your name before; perhaps you were known by another...?”

“One turn deserves another,” Annatar said sweetly, taking up his wine. “First, who in truth are you? We cannot speak meaningfully without some trust.”

“True,” he acknowledged with a tilt of his glass. “Aerdin is a name from suspicious times. I am Círdan and Nowë Enel’s son. All my identities, the ones I still remember.”

“Still, your history is longer than mine. I have but one name in Middle-earth. I was long a student of Aulë.” And he told his short history in long words. He’d arrived with the host of the Valar and remained when they recrossed the sea. He saw the scars the War had left on the land and its people and pitied them. “My teaching from the Blessed Realm,” he concluded, “can help you who have, and rightly, not abandoned Middle-earth.”

The shipwright nodded. “Admirable.”

“Círdan, you are closely allied with King Ereinion,” Annatar’s purr quickened. “He makes no secret of his unwelcome to me and my disciples. So why do you come then?”

“I was bored.”

Annatar blinked, then slowly bared his magnificent teeth. “As I asked. Yes, you are honest.”

“I so dislike falsehoods,” Círdan lied.

“Alas, there have been reports tossed about that I’m a cultivator of many falsehoods,” Annatar said as one who has suffered long and accepted it.

“Jealousy and gossip ever drift in success’ wake.”

“Success? False rumors have done much to hinder real success, the healing of the land.” The sapphire eyes were earnest and kindly. “That can be amended. Please tell your king so.”

“Ereinion is not my king. I am independent, only caretaker of the havens. I do not speak for him.”

The blue eyes narrowed, though the smile did not falter. “Do you not wish to be your own king?”

“No.” Círdan laughed. “Too much work.”

“I cannot blame you.”Annatar sipped his wine, nonchalant. “But I can help you and your mariners too, by whatever title you call yourself. You’ve doubtless heard of my offers? We can make your havens fair, like Alqualondë or Tirion, fairer even.” His voice was a song without a perceptible beat. Círdan suddenly found he could not take his eyes off Annatar’s pleasant face. “With the support of you and the High King – for great is his influence and respect – all elvendom can share the fruits of my teaching, and our labor together could heal Middle-earth, cultivate it glorious as Valinor, as it was meant to be…”

Annatar’s voice swathed over his ears; Círdan could not without a struggle separate his thoughts from the other’s words, telling of pearl beaches and white cities, silver streets and glittering fountains, gardens that never browned and birds never ceased to sing.

Círdan’s eyelids fluttered… really, the smell of lavender was too strong… the music too sweet… the wine too warm… A beautiful white ship rocked in a golden bay embraced by green hills. His ship, a perfect ship, that he could not build in a hundred attempts, not without aid...

“…It is as the Valar desire… I’ve this task to accomplish. You understand that, of course. What do you say?”

A girl topped off his cup.

“H’m,” said Círdan.

“Yes?” Annatar’s amulets and bracelets clinked as he leaned forward.

“Sorry! I said, ah.”

Annatar took to his cushion again and repieced his smile. “You are a practical man,” he said. “You must think I am more word than deed. Allow me now to present you with a tangible argument.”

Annatar motioned and a youth came forward holding a small chest, itself a masterwork of wood and bronze. He opened the lid and immersed his hand into the contents. Cling! Cling! Cling! Through his fingers spilled splendid chalices and circlets, rings and brooches, all, he claimed, fashioned by himself and his apprentices as gifts for the High King.

“Not only the cutting of gems and shaping of metals do I teach,” he said, setting the chest before Círdan. “Wood, stone, water, the domination of any substance you could desire.”

Círdan darted his gaze over the chest but did not touch it. “Impressive, but my people have no need, really. We’re satisfied with our crafts. We find pleasure in conceiving the ever greater ship. And no sea wall of mine has fallen yet, barring the unconventional disaster; Finrod of Nargothrond gave us a satisfactory store of knowledge in masonry.”

“One can always improve on knowledge.” Annatar smiled wide, making full show of his straight white teeth.

“Yes,” Círdan matched his smile tooth for tooth. “But not from you.”

A fire flashed behind the blue eyes, or Círdan imagined. At second glance, they were clear and kind as a rainless spring sky.

“I am sorry to hear it. Well! Say not Annatar has not attempted to be gracious. Is Ereinion Gil-galad’s wish still for us to depart?”

“Afraid so.”

Annatar’s grin slipped. “Then we’ll be off tomorrow.”

“No need to hurry,” said Círdan.

Annatar gave him a quick if courteous boot out the tent. They both forgot about the chest of gifts.

A day and a bath later, Ereinion looked him over. “Well? Have you been converted? Poisoned? A dagger in your back?”

“Not like you to assume the worse. Of course I wouldn’t have exposed my back,” Círdan sniffed. He recounted the whole interview. The High King listened, leaning close, actually beaming to hear justifications for his decision.

When finished, Círdan collapsed on his chair and muttered, “White teeth, white ship… yes, she shall be white… I’d have liked to know how he keeps those teeth so clean, though.”

Ereinion, gazing out the window in dismay at a new bout of rain, shot him a look. “What about teeth?”

He only half-heard Ereinion. He finally saw his ship in vibrant detail, flawless and proud. He might never achieve the vision, but the pleasure was all in the attempt. He closed his eyes as a nap overcame him. “I didn’t say anything.”

...

Nowë is Círdan’s prehistoric name. (“Last Writings,” The Peoples of Middle-earth).

The connection to Enel was completely contrived. (“Quendi and Eldar, Appendix,” War of the Jewels).

It may simply be from an overdose of piano practice… am I alone in thinking the first two lines of “Lavender’s Blue” are subversive?

Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly, lavender’s green.
When I am king, dilly-dilly, you shall be queen.

Finally, behold Berende's glorious lamblike Annatar on DeviantART. (Thank you Berende for allowing me to share! ^^)

4 - Hunting by Number

Finrod and Círdan learn where they fall on Morgoth’s hit-list.

The tiny fire blinked as a hand threw in kindling. Beside it sat two elves, heads silver and gold, and a mound of hares. One elf was skinning, the other pretending to.

“But,” Finrod tried again, “you were better this time.”

“Worse.”

“No, better! I could never have made such a shot! Right under my arm. Amazing, one inch over and it could have pierced my hand. ”

“Hmm… what happened… what happened was I sneezed,” Círdan finished.

“So… ah,” Finrod’s complexion lost a smidge of its ruddiness. “Well, it was still a good shot.”

Círdan paused, noticing a knife edging towards Finrod’s throat. But Finrod noticed first.

“Got you,” Finrod told the knife. It dropped from a quivering hand. He pulled the hand along with its owner into the firelight – an orc, a young orc, squirming and squealing, garbed in poorly scraped skins that looked more like moldy extensions of his own hide

“Don’t eat me!”

Claws flailed. Spittle flew. Finrod held firm to the wrist, like a hook on a determined fish, the rod of his arm extended far enough to evade the orc’s floundering limbs.

“Don’t eat me!”

“Sit still and I won’t.”

The orc shot Círdan, who watched their anglers’ dance with blank eyes, a quivering peep. “W-will he?”

“He won’t eat you either. I promise.”

The orc sat down, snuffling. “Don’t eat me.”

Finrod released the orc’s arm and with his other hand stuck the little knife blade-down by the hares.

“If this is your standard method of thieving, don’t continue with it. You’ll die. Here.” Finrod handed him a partially skinned hare. The orc sniffed it. “It is not poisoned.”

The orc probably did not hear the last promise, as his fangs were already tearing and chomping.

Finrod gave him a polite minute. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. Er, no,” the orc amended. He squelched off another morsel.

“What’s your name?”

The orc spoke through a full mouth. “Don’ got un.”

“No one ever calls you by anything?”

“Er, they call me Snitch sometimes.”

“Oh, why is that?” said Finrod, not without theories.

Snitch wiped blood on the back of his hand. “I listen. I remember things. When the boss needs to remember the Lord Master’s wishes, he asks me. When he needs a message sent, he sends me. Tha’s why when he was eaten I wasn’t.”

Finrod rested his chin on a knee to watch with eyes that glittered with a radiance deeper than firelight. “That must make you an important fellow.”

“Huh. Yeah, does. Yeah.” Snitch’s green face – which Finrod’s nose asserted was more a result of hygiene than pigmentation – flushed olive.

“I bet you know more than do most your kind.”

Snitch swallowed. “Maggots more. I know – I know north and south. I know where the boss keeps his drink an’ why the moon doesn’t fall an’ how many times to crack an egg so it spills out right. I even know which Enemies the Lord Master wants most.” He added in a loud hiss, “We was, if fact, looking for one – and almost found ‘im before the others got eaten – the king and his secret fortress. The Lord Master wants the king.” Snitch held up four greasy claws. “This much. Great rewards for those who find the Big Enemies, you see, the fewer fingers, the bigger the reward.”

Snitch missed the glance that flew between the two elves, but did catch a hungry twitch in the mute silver elf. He shuffled closer to the gold one and nibbled the hare’s bones.

“Excuse me, Snitch,” said the mute. “I am curious. Who is the first?”

In a flurry of claws and mildewed hides, Snitch dropped his snack and crouched like a very ugly squirrel set to flee up a trunk.“Wha -wha’s that?”

“Sorry. I mean who is--” Círdan held high a single thumb. “Of the Enemies?”

Snitch picked up the fallen carcass and clutched it like a protective charm. He thought before saying, “Er, the evil king in the hidden kingdom.”

“And who’s-” Círdan’s pointer met with his thumb.

“Tha’s the evil queen of the dark forest. Next’s her eviler king.”

“Well, what about-” All five fingers stretched out.

Snitch shuddered. “He’s the wicked chief whose head is on fire.”

Círdan’s left thumb joined in.

“All his evil brothers.”

Finrod clicked his tongue. “That’s not fair.”

“Rph,” agreed Círdan, shooting up another finger.

Snitch studied his claws. “The big-king of the blue banner.”

For the next finger, Snitch again needed to reference his own digits.

“The whelp of the big-king of the blue banner.”

The silver elf had every one of his long fingers extended now, minus a pinky. Snitch thought that if he hadn’t been hungry before, he must have been now; and fingers do fit neatly around one’s throat.

He gulped. “Er, the evil king by the wicked water.”

“Ninth?” Círdan’s hands plunged into his lap. “Only ninth. He needs to try harder. Thank you, Snitch.”

Snitch sighed and darted his eyes about, finally resting them on the left side of the gold elf. The elf didn’t seem to notice at all, too absorbed in saying, “Well, nine is a strong number.”

So over the gold elf’s lowered knee, Snitch’s hand slipped snailspeed, outstretched, reaching... And in an eyeblink Finrod snatched up the knife, so that Snitch’s claws just scraped along the hilt. Finrod tossed it to Círdan. He caught it and stuck it in his belt.

“Do not,” Círdan roared softly, “try that again.”

Snitch, after a moment without a heartbeat and gripping a hilt of air, dropped simultaneously onto his knees and face. He blubbered in a cocoon of shivers. “I knew it. I told you everything I know so now you’re gonna eat me.”

Finrod stood and narrowed his eyes. Snitch’s whimpering magnified by three.

“That is enough. We’ve not hurt you.”

Snitch howled. “You’re gonna keep me ‘n eat me later…”

“We don’t intend to keep you,” said Finrod, raising his voice over the orc’s. “We’ll let you free.” The bawling briefly ebbed. “Yes, we’ll let you free. But only if you swear not to kill, maim or discomfort any man, elf or dwarf on your road to your master. When we hear about it we will not show mercy again. We may even reconsider eating you.”

“Yes, I swear! I swear! By the great Lord Master, I swear!”

“Repeat the conditions, Snitch.”

Snitch raised his chin and scratched at his dripping nose. “I won’t kill and maim mans and elves and dwarves on the road. I swear I won’t.”

Finrod blinked a long blink. “Stand up.”

Snitch scrambled.

“Hold out your arms.”

The orc obeyed with a moan.

“Take these as a trade for the knife.” Finrod piled him with the remainder of their game, even the hare Círdan had with such difficulty and pride procured. Snitch’s knees buckled. He stared as though unconvinced that his arms and head were still fastened to the rest of him. But he did not mull it over for long and away he scurried. They watched until the night folded over his back.

“You are too lenient,” Círdan said in the forbidden tongue, stretching full length toward the neglected fire that was protesting with sparks. “He’ll only return to pillaging and killing when he’s out of earshot.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Finrod. He barked a laugh. “You needed to see your eyes when you caught the knife. I was reminded of Tulkas in his best mood.” His wink was broad. He then lifted four fingers to his face as though inspecting them for blemishes, and frowned. “I believe Morgoth is mistaken in the numbering of his enemies…”

5 - Waiting

Nowë makes four promises to his brother. 500 words fixed length

Nowë had slumped under the willow longer than he could say. Long enough that his back was damp and stiff, and had sunk into the dirt like an ancient boulder. And long enough that Helluin had wheeled from its highest perch on the dome to behind the hills. But not long enough to be prepared when he heard that dreaded sound of Alwë’s long gait. He did not want to look in his face. He’d already read what was there. He knew what would be said and from that he had fled hours before.

Alwë eased down beside him. Nowë felt him try to smile. The silver curtain of leaves, rippling from Alwë’s wake, hid them from any eyes on the lakeshore.

“Hello, Fish,” Alwë said. Nowë said nothing. “You amaze me, you know. This last season you and Elwë have sprouted, you both now tower over me. You will be marriageable soon! What’s more, you are cleverer than me. You are quite fit to lead the family.” Alwë paused, then continued firmly, “I leave soon to find our parents.”

Nowë did not meet his brother’s eyes. He said to a willow branch, “You won’t find them.”

“Your voices tell you that?”

Nowë nodded.

Alwë sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I hear them. I can’t help it.”

He could spend star-wheel upon star-wheel sitting alone by the Cuiviénen, and often he did, listening as the waters talked of unfathomable doings and of distant places. He rarely understood. One thing he did understand was that from wherever the lost ones went they would not return.

His brother did not forbid the practice, but neither did he approve. It seemed too much like the fell whispers in the shadows reported by those who hunted far from the lake’s sheltering shores. He voiced this view at his every chance.

Alwë was like that, paternal to his siblings’ dismay. He was the first child of their father and mother, who themselves had never been children. They left on a time, seeking lost friends and never returning. Nowë was their youngest, a small scrap then, and same age as his brother Alwë’s eldest son. He’d lived in his brother’s house since, not so much his three nephews’ uncle as their brother.

For the water’s voices Alwë had no interest. He had a mind like stone, and a purpose he set there never quivered. He looked full at Nowë, but still Nowë refused to return the gaze.

“They went over the hills. I’ll travel that way. You’ll head the family til I return. Nowë.” He seized his brother’s chin and forced Nowë’s eyes to finally meet his own. “You promise to look after them.”

“Yes.”

“And to not let Elwë or Olwë or Elmo follow.”

“Yes.”

“And to not follow either.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Alwë released him and flicked his hair. “I’m fond of you, Fish. Promise me one thing more. Don’t marry that water.”

“Ye-es.” Nowë batted him off. “Be quick. I’ll wait for you.”

Of his four promises, Nowë broke three.

6 – Vertigo

Finrod and Círdan visit Barad Nimras, where it is learned that neither is without his phobias.

Through the blue sky pierced the tower, white and sheen as pearl. It was raised on a natural peak of white rock freshly rinsed with rain and just high enough over the sea that the waves could not break over its edge. But the sea took that as a challenge and fiercely it tried.

A small skiff bobbed beside the rock-face, perilously close, a kiss away. And in one heave of water, the tiny ship crumbled into it – or at least seemed to, because no shatter of timbers ensued. It had, in fact, rolled into a hidden harbor, which was only approachable by a break in the wall. A quay of thick timbers stretched from the white shore, built with larger ships bearing heavier cargo in mind.

The skiff knocked against the quay. Two elves jumped out, one tugging a line, which he tied to a hold in a single fluid motion.

Three fellows from the shore galloped over, chewing their late breakfast. Their brown tunics, faded with white dust, betrayed them as workmen. Their proud, ivory vestiges betrayed them further as Noldorin; that is, not just workmen, but masters in the art of masonry. They made as to apprehend the unmarked visitors with reluctance, for it was a distraction from work that had already been set back by the rain. But coming closer, they took note of the visitors' vibrant heads of gold and silver that spoke of other than rogue fishermen needing telling off, and the workmen's expressions, cheeks stuffed yet with bread, stretched awkwardly in hesitation.

"Lord Finrod, Lord Círdan! We had not heard you were to visit today." There was a flash of sleeve as the workman swept stray crumbs from his chin. Came an afterthought: "Welcome to Barad Nimras!"

What was more surprising to them was that Finrod had not burst in long before. Finrod was intimate with all the construction ventures on the Falas, instrumental in all the planning stages, and it was not just his social status that gained him the prestige, for he had a fantastical genius in architecture. What he did have at his disposal, which other would-be architectural visionaries lacked, were armies of craftsmen to realize his visions. This tower was an odd case in that he had not been peering over the shoulders of his craftsmen. But the reason was clear enough: he was in the midst of a dozen other grand constructions. The rebuilding of the haven-cities Eglarest and Brithombar, for two.

"Our apologies for not sending word ahead!" said the golden-locked prince. His beaming face put the workmen at ease. "We left Eglarest on a whim yesterday afternoon to see the progress of the tower."

"Ahhh," said the first workman, forgetting formalities in surprise. "Then you were caught in the storm! Where did you take harbor?"

"Círdan Elu's-kin does not seek shelter in storms," said Finrod, his glowing face now pasty. "He ridesthem like one rides an unbroken stallion."

Círdan dipped his chin. "As unquenchable as the sea is the humor of Lord Ulmo. I saw no sign of the storm when we left. I promised a swift journey for Prince Finrod and to the best of my abilities I attempted."

Finrod's answer was a greenish smile. The three workmen took the moment to observe the blueness of the sky.

Finrod recaptured the conversation. "We desire to tour the tower. I had word the construction was complete, and had been given the key."

"Of course, my lords. The building is complete. But the path is yet to be finished. We have torn up much of the old path the tower-builders used and it is something of a hike to pass through…"

"No matter, no matter! We can continue on from here on our own."

The workmen returned to their stone-sculpting instruments with gratitude. Finrod avoided the half-built path and hopped up the slope, from stone to stone over grass and brush like a goat. Círdan watched his scramble, noted the way the road-builders followed, though not the straightest path, and chose likewise.

Paths should be smooth and straight on land, because they could be made so. On sea, it is naïve to wish for a smooth path, and it was best to learn to enjoy the bumps. That storm, such merriment! It had snuck in like a fox and burst like a rattled wasp nest. In a storm the sea is allowed to release itself from its stateliness and show its true character. The greatest freedom was to be found in the whims of the waves, and Círdan craved to hear the laughter of Ossë entrained in them. But however much of Telerin blood Finrod possessed, he did not share the same passion.

"Son of Eärwen," Círdan had bellowed, one hand extended to feel the wind while the little skiff shot down the crest of a swollen wave. "Green does not become you…"

Finrod had not laughed. But now he was chipper, panting and flushed at the tower's foot, and the young sun burned golden on his head. His long hand shaded his eyes to peer up to the pinnacle. It was a wonder to Círdan, who stepped lightly and slowly on the broken dirt path, that Finrod's tilted head had not sent him toppling onto his backside.

"Well," Finrod said when at last Círdan strolled to his side. "Wish you to see the top? Come! Never will an assault by sea surprise you! This is on the westernmost cape, and on a clear day twenty leagues are within sight!"

"To the top!" Círdan said. "The view here is fine and I can see ten leagues without squinting."

"No arguments from you! I sat in your boat, you shall climb my tower." Finrod took a final large gulp of air and rested his hand on the door. "Now follow me, unless you are too weary from captaining."

"I do not weary." Círdan took a step, pushed gently on the smooth white wall with one hand, and gripped an iron railing with the other. "Tell me about tower-raising."

And Finrod did, and then some. See how the mortar shows no wedge between the stones? No one could scale it, and it will not fall, save by an earthquake or a giant… And it is really quite simple to raise a tower, once the foundation has been set…

The staircase wound and wound. Círdan marked twenty-one winds in his head before giving up. Some time later Finrod paused to show him the watchers' chambers: their neat cutlery, beds and fire. Finally they reached a straight stretch of stair that ended at a door in the ceiling. They pushed the door upward.

The uppermost room was open, allowing a round view of the entire scape of the sea in the west and the Falas in the east. In the center was bare stone, where wood was yet to be stacked, Finrod explained, for a beacon that would shine as warning should enemies from the sea approach. A fresh breeze whisked their hair back. Círdan stopped half in the stairwell and Finrod sprang on ahead.

"We are smiled upon!" cried Finrod. "The rain of last night cleared the air. Look! You can see the jutting of mouth of the Brithon in the north."

Círdan held back on the top step and nodded. From below, far, far below, drifted the voices of the workmen singing Noldorin ditties and the clinging of their tools cutting stone.

Finrod bounded to the east side. "There, Eglarest, no mistake! See, the white roofs flash under Anar!"

Again, Círdan nodded.

"And the Cape of Balar!" Finrod pointed south. "I have never seen the shoreline so clear!"

Círdan stepped out of the stairwell and to the edge facing the sea. He squinted into the west. It was brisk blue, and the bluest sky yawned over it, the same view as from the beach, or a ship, only from here he fancied he could make out the faintest silver shimmer on the furthest horizon. Then he drew his gaze nearer, over the white-crested waves, to the shore, and right below, on the white stones that jutted on the shoreline like children's sand castles and the workmen that scurried like ants over it.

"The tower's true height is deceiving from the base," he said.

And one could just slip over the rail (it should have been higher than the waist), and the ground is quite hard.

"Yes," said Finrod, thinking. "One-hundred-forty-four of Aulë's units, about one and one-twentieth of you furlongs. Or about seven-hundred of your hands… "

Círdan became aware that the sea was spilling into the sky and somehow was eating at his knees. He looked at Finrod, who was beaming and had not yet noticed the sea's unruliness.

He pressed the rail and closed his eyes. He said, "Have you many towers in Valinor?"

"Many?" came Finrod's voice at his shoulder. "Scores in Tirion alone. The Tower of Ingwë, Mindon Eldaliéva, whose silver lamp shines across the sea, is the highest – thrice the stature of this tower."

"I assume Olwë occupies the second highest," said Círdan. "He had strange tastes. He took rest in trees, and only in the topmost branches as would bear him. (This was before he married your grandmother). One day I sat at a beech's roots. Suddenly a shower of leaves poured onto my face, and then Olwë crashed into my lap. I looked up. A neat column of branches was snapped from the top down. He was back at it next wheel o' the stars, of course."

He opened his eyes. The gulls were flying backwards over the rocks below and the sun was green.

"Finrod, could that be Brithombar?"

Finrod stood beside him, staring over the sea, his hands clasped over the rail. At his name he started and blinked. The smile had slipped from his eyes, though now it rebounded brighter than before. He turned to face north.

"I do not know. Perhaps! Yet I thought the hills would conceal it. Círdan?"

Círdan's answer echoed from the stairwell: "All this climbing! It is high time for lunch!"

"Hold, Círdan, ere I forget," said Finrod. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a sturdy silver key. "This is yours."

The key pressed into his palm. Finrod's face rotated level to the horizon. "I shall find worthy men to guard this tower," said Círdan.

Finrod stepped down beside him."I would have suggested that we lunch in the watchers' room. But we can just as pleasantly lunch at the base." Finrod's voice dropped to a whisper. "For, Círdan, green does not become you..."

7 - The Way the Tide Flows

Círdan tells two visitors a tale about the Second Age and the choice that determined everything after.

Still caked in sweat and blood, the two elves stood in the tent alone, each facing the other. It was a lavish tent, large enough for a table, resting-couch, and cabinet lined with powdered herbs, leaves, vials, and grinding stones. A single lamp threw wavering shadows over the maps and letters strewn on every surface. This was the tent of Elrond Eärendilion, former herald of the High-King Gil-Galad, and now sharing first in command with Círdan of the Havens, for today the High-King was killed and their enemy destroyed.

Elrond’s face flushed with rising temper. Círdan he had always relied on for guidance, but in this subject they were matched in their inexperience.

“You are making dangerous guesses! On the field you advise him to surrender it without delay. Now you say we wait?”

“Because to wait is the only course now open. You cannot take a Ring of Power from its holder. It must be given freely.”

Elrond snorted.

Círdan continued without notice: “Taking it will start a war between us and the men of Númenor. Trust me, Elrond. When a king’s mind is set, there is none that can dissuade him. Especially in cases of objects of great power. I saw the same look on Thingol’s face when I begged him to surrender the Silmaril.”

“Then can you not foresee a similar disaster here? All the more reason to take it and avoid greater grief later!” Elrond barely restrained himself; he paced, clenched his fists. Ereinion had made them equals in command and in a great Trust, and both knew that at dawn they would have to part ways agreeing.

After some minutes, Elrond broke his step and turned to the other. “You felt their draw to the One as well.” He touched a chain on his neck, where he kept Ereinion’s charge, Vilya, the Ring of Air.

Círdan’s hand moved to his chest, where the Ring of Fire rested in a wallet against his heart. “A draw, but not a submission. Suppose since Sauron’s spirit has fled, the rings are free?”

Before Elrond could protest, Círdan slipped out Narya and slid it onto his right forefinger. Círdan stared at the rubied circlet, lips taut, as though ready to smash the thing against the table if need be.

“H’m.” He removed the ring and pat it back into the wallet. “That was an adventure.”

Elrond’s mouth twisted to one side, not sure which way to take his remark.

“Nothing. The Eye is lidded,” Círdan explained. “My thoughts are my own. Now, what to do?”

Elrond appeared startled, though he had witnessed the destruction of Sauron’s body. “If he is gone, the rings can be used as they were intended. The desolation of the kingdoms and even this land could be reversed…” He trailed off. He became ashamed of his eagerness and unsure. Though he fingered his chain he made no attempt to don Vilya.

They stood in silence while the lamp flickered from insects that dared too close to the fire.

“If there is still power in these rings,” Elrond said slowly. “Is it of themselves? Or are they sustained by the One, in the same way we fear It could sustain Sauron’s spirit in this world? I wonder then whether they could truly be free.”

Círdan considered. “We know from Celebrimbor’s word that the Three were forged by him, and Sauron had no part in their making. They at least are not tainted with his touch, and neither would be anything wrought with them.”

Again silence. They absorbed the prospects that lay ahead for their broken kingdom.

“To return to the question of Isildur,” said Círdan. “He is no fool and not as stiff-necked to reason as Elu-Thingol. I feel that he shall heed our counsel. We need only to wait.”

“We waited, and as you well know, Isildur heeded too late.”

Círdan looked at his two visitors, the elf and dwarf. They had come that afternoon from the east on a single horse, bearing scores of questions. To see two such companions would not have been so strange at the close of the Second Age. He felt old and stroked his beard.

The sun had long since set. They sat on an open patio where the only light fell from the stars and the swelling moon, and the only sounds from the lap of waves and chorus of insects. In former times, the air would have been blooming with Falathrim voices in song and laughter.

“I retired here to Mithlond and asked whether it was grief from the deaths of Elendil and Ereinion, or from blindness by my friendship with Isildur, or from weariness of battle that kept me from claiming the Ring to destroy. And again and again after these journeys of thought, the conclusion I reached was always the same.

“For had we taken It by force we would not have been able to destroy It. It would have destroyed us. Yet because we alone had seen Isildur claim the Ring, we carried the responsibility of our inaction.

“The longer we waited, the more unwilling we were to advise Isildur against the Ring because we feared what would become of the Three. Elrond and I had planted our own snare that night. In later years we and the Lady Galadriel (all three the swollen and proud offshoots of Enel!) were eager to wield the rings and bring our lands back to some semblance of what they were in the golden years of the Second Age, before the Ring Wars. Had we not done so, much that is fair would have left this shore long ago.

“A fleeting glory, at such heavy cost! But every choice demands a price. That’s that way the tide flows.”

He sighed, feeling older still. The waves rolled in and out.

“Before we marched from Lindon Gil-Galad foresaw his death and entrusted Narya to me. I wore it following the war to protect it. At first I kept it selfishly, for it gave me youth I had forgotten and recalled memories I had lost. In time it became a burden. I felt young, too young, and too old… It had a fire, a demanding one! It was wasted on me. I saw in Mithrandir one who could put the fire to better use ere it demanded of him too much.

“You asked me about Ithilien, Legolas Thranduilion. That it echoes of an old force? It did not come of the rings, and it will not fade with their departure, worry not! Ithilien was our home for the seven years of siege and we had grown fond of the country’s little forests; it may remember. It is in your own power – and no jewel or trinket’s – to sustain its memory.”

The Shipwright Shrugs by Kitt Otter