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Chapter 3 – The Shipwright meets shipwrecked strangers

The knock on his chamber door was welcomed by Círdan, and he knew Glinnor shared that sentiment.  The business of tithes and dues was always made better by being interrupted, for it was always just that tedious of a chore.  Especially for his administrator and friend who, as the Steward of Eglarest, found collections and shortfalls an unappealing aspect of his fiscal responsibilities.

“Enter – please!” he called.  The steward gave him a droll grin.  But he knew that had they been in his office, Glinnor would have issued the same invitation with the same enthusiasm.

The door opened, and who entered was Orongil, the chief of the Elmoi in Eglarest and its environs, another trusted councilor and an even older friend than Glinnor.  The steward had risen from obscurity in Brithombar and had only recently come to this haven.

Orongil’s father, the young and newly wed third son of Elmo, had brought his pretty bride to the Falas to live when the city was still hardly a town.  They and their followers had come to join up with Círdan’s diminishing people, and together they had grown great.  The father and son had been instrumental in establishing another settlement, where now Orongil’s son assisted his grandfather, the Lord of Brithombar.  A second city is something Elu Thingol, for all the magnificence of Menegroth, cannot boast of.  That thought always pleased Círdan’s humble vanity.  And for everything the Elmoi had done, he was grateful.  The clan had helped the nenwaith become more than left-behind Teleri.  His people had become a nation: the Falathrim.

So at first, he was happy to see the clan-lord and would rise from his chair to greet him.  But then, he stayed seated behind his desk, for he could tell from his friend’s vibrant demeanor that Orongil had a problem he would be more than pleased to slough off onto him, his liege lord.  On the other side of the desk though, Glinnor did stand in deference to a prince of the realm.

“Please forgive the disturbance, my lord,” politely begged a smiling Orongil.

“That, Sir, depends on what has brought you here.”  He said this with an arch note of suspicion, since the chieftain was in a good mood and would not mind a little friendly ribbing.

“Not what you may think, my lord,” Orongil claimed, his signature grin gleaming.

Which made Círdan smilingly wary.  He does have something up his sleeve.  The clan-lord was also intentionally ignoring Glinnor’s presence.  Because, the steward was not on the chieftain’s good-list at the moment.  But then he hardly ever is.  Yet, whereas Glinnor should have been pleased to go unnoticed, he appeared not to be.

“I bring a petition for an audience with my Lord.”  This explanation was augmented with a florid bow meant to entertain whilst satisfying the required etiquette.

“Personally?” questioned Glinnor.  He feigned great shock at such a thing having occurred.  “Who are these incredibly important people?”  Then added, with a hint of vindictive glee, “Or do they have you over a barrel?”

Orongil’s grin grew wider and tighter, his glinting eyes narrowing, but he remained silent.  To Círdan, the chieftain preferring to promote his cause by courteously waiting for his Lord to speak instead of immediately engaging in a verbal skirmish was a clear indication that his request had some importance to it.

“Well, my friend, I do – as ever – rely upon your good judgment.”  This Círdan said for both their benefits.  He beckoned for Orongil to come closer and make his appeal.  Unhappily, at the clan-lord’s coming nearer, his councilors fell into an exchange of dagger-eyes, and he had to reclaim the chieftain’s attention.  “Who is it I need hear out so badly that you choose to carry their cause?”

“A quartet of shipwrecked explorers, my lord.”  Much like his grin, Orongil’s tone of voice had grown tighter then when he first came in.  “As two of them were of my clan, brought to me for succor.  However, their dilemma exceeds my powers to ameliorate.  They beseech your aid, and bring what treasure they carry to you, my Lord, in appreciation of your attentive concern for their helpless plight.”

“And what will be your share for your invaluable assistance?” asked Glinnor in a snide tone.

“Nothing!” Orongil snapped back, his grin gone.  He fixed a steely glare upon the steward.  “Tax-collector!”

Glinnor bristled.  Not so much at the term itself, but at the intended meanness.  The insult would not go unanswered, particularly after such purposeful provocation on his part.  He drew breath for a vehement return volley.

“Enough! Both of you!” Círdan quickly interjected.  He was not going to let the situation escalate any further.  He had had enough.  “I have told you both already to leave your personal grievances outside this chamber!  One more violation of that order, and I shall impose arbitration upon this botched betrothal.”  The two of them looked at him in mortified surprise.  “Oh yes, I know all about it!  You gave me no choice but to pry.  So, if you do not want to be dictated to in your own houses – which will result in public humiliation, I assure you – you will conduct yourselves with some decorum in mine.”

Both prideful lords, they instantly backed down and sought to regain some dignity by avoiding eye contact and peevishly adjusting their tunics – in alike fashion, as if it were a set drill.  Círdan had to struggle to hold back the smile that would undermine the seriousness of his threat.  In fact, they were rather reminiscent of cats, who when caught out, will turn ostensibly unruffled and lick at their fur.

Nonetheless, he knew their worst quarrel yet would not be done until Orongil’s silly granddaughter was in love with a more eligible candidate for a son-in-law.  Hopefully, the young elleth’s fickle nature would resolve their conflict sooner rather than later.

“Orongil... “  He gestured for the chieftain to continue his plea.  A stony look at Glinnor let him know his Lord was put out with the steward for picking a fight.

“As I was saying... ”  Orongil dared cast a hard glance of his own at Glinnor.  “I have assumed the care of these unfortunates, but they seek a craft that may return them to their homeland.  Now, I have made it clear that an excellent ship is to be had from any master builder in the city.  Particularly when it appears they have the means to purchase one outright.  But, their strongbox is literally sealed, and they will not even consider handing over its contents to any but you.  If the seal is to be broken, that will be done by you alone.  So their leader has sworn.”

“This is a strange encumbrance to take on.  How can they not open it to help themselves in need, but feel free to make a gift of it to me?”  He leaned back in his chair, intrigued.  And it occurred to him that engaging his curiosity might have been the motivation for this odd oath. 

“Indeed, my lord.”  Círdan sensed he was about to hear the real reason for Orongil’s unusual solicitation on behalf of these wayward strangers.  “What is more interesting is that it is not clear where about their land lies.  Their leader, in fact they all, have been very circumspect about that.”  But, there was restrained enthusiasm, not mistrust, behind the clan-lord’s words.  “However, I suspect that it may be found in the south.”  He paused, meaning to heighten the dramatic effect of his next words.  “... the far south!”

What Orongil was implying was indeed dramatic, even momentous, and clearly he expected an appropriate reaction from his Lord.  When that was not forthcoming, he was suddenly at a loss and hastily began offering evidence, endeavoring to get the response he felt his brilliant deduction warranted.

“Their manners!  Their accents!  Their names!  And – “

“And what?” Círdan coldly interrupted.  “Speculation is just that: speculation.  Oddness is no basis for the conclusion that these survivors are from those that set sail to found a southern haven.”  Hearing a subtle bitterness in his words, he abruptly realized that he was refuting the possibility simply because he could not bear to believe in Orongil’s conclusion and then for it not be true.  Too many times past, it had not been true.  No one had ever come back.  No one ever will.  Not from west or south.  Long ago, he had had to either let go of the hope or die from the disappointment.

Orongil threw up his hands in voiceless frustration.  His judgment – which had earlier been credited – was now being questioned.  So, he threw down what he obviously considered the most convincing piece of evidence, but was acting resentful that he had to do it.  Which angered Cíirdan.  You meant to make yourself look wiser than you are by withholding information!

“Their faces!  They have eledhwaith looks, but – “

“But what?” Círdan interrupted again, thinking to stop him from saying anything more.  Only to have the equally irate chieftain raise his voice and discourteously speak over him.  Orongil was just fortunate that their friendship was of enough duration to excuse his rudeness!

“ – very familiar looks!  Círdan, the two brothers have Gilwë’s face!  At least, that is what Elder Auntie has said, else I would not be bringing them to you!”

He bolted upright in his chair, unsettled by the crashing wave of emotion that swept over him.  Brothers!  Brothers with Gilwë’s face!  Ringwën!  Gilwë’s only surviving sister, being just as adventurous as her brother, had sailed with the colonists heading out to follow the southern coast.  Never to be heard from again.  Brothers!  Might they be her children?  Had they been purposely sent as proof for him?  Brothers!  Adventuring together!  Just as he and Gilwë, they sworn-brothers, had explored together in the distant and now lost world from before the Great Journey.  His hand went to his beard, the beard he did not then have.

“How could you tell him that?!” hissed Glinnor in an angry whisper.  “And in such a way!”

“I had to!” complained Orongil, his own voice rasping.  “I tried not to!”

Círdan looked up at them.  They had no need to mute their heartfelt concern over his peace of mind.  Their faces alone would have told him how much they cared.  Oh, how I wish you were as good of friends to each other as you are to me!  Gathering himself, he rose and left his desk to head for the door, intent on seeing these mysterious supplicants at once.

“Please you, my lord!” begged Orongil.  “Allow me to bring them to you!”

“Consider your dignity, my lord!” Glinnor simultaneously joined in.  “Wait here, please!”

“No, I wish to see them without their being any more prepared.”  Truth was he could not force himself to wait.  “Where are they?”

“The Watch Room,” was Orongil’s reluctant answer.

“Good,” he said as he swiftly exited.  That room being private, no one else would have joined them.

The three high lords strode through the halls and up the stairs to where Orongil had left the four strangers to await his summons; Círdan plowing ahead with the other two keeping close behind in his speedy wake.  When they reached the room, he allowed neither lord, nor the servant waiting upon the visitors, to open the door for him.  Without a word, he quietly stepped inside.  His councilors followed him in, with the servant silently closing the door behind them.

The Watch Room was Círdan’s personal observation deck and located on the highest floor of the enormous house long ago dubbed the Shipwright’s Palace.  The corbelled tuorelle bulged out from a corner, in the very shadow of the taller watchtower.  Unlike the tower, which had an open turret at the top, this room had only three wide angled casements that formed an enormous bowed window; open and unglazed with foul weather shutters that were almost always folded back.  Even at this elevation, much lower than the watchtower, one could observe the goings-on from the palace docks to the private berths that ranged along the inner crescent of the municipal wharfs.  There were other watchtowers surrounding the bay, each overlooking their own slice of the extensive harbor.  The high-seat the Lord of the Falas was a large and sprawling habitation with much enterprise taking place inside and out of the fortified residence of the Lord Círdan.

The four foreigners were standing in the windowed crescent, two on each side of one of the round support pillars.  Their backs were to the door as they were looking outward over the harbor, and they were chatting unconcernedly.  Círdan did not need any great wisdom to tell him which of the ellyn were possibly Ringwën’s descendants.  Their hair was starlight captured; as pale and shimmering as few but Gilwë’s kindred possessed.  Standing next to each other, the brothers looked equally tall and svelte in form.  But, the one he would judge to be much younger was broader in the shoulders with a physic more muscular than that of his brother.  However, the older brother spoke with an intelligence and authority that left no question as to why others might chose to follow his lead.  For surely, he is their leader.  The one who had guilefully promised away their wealth.

The other two ellyn were less tall than the brothers and dark-haired.  One was on crutches, and he wore also a set of wood and metal braces on his legs that went from ankle to hip, essentially splints with articulated knee joints.  He rested a shoulder against the pillar for support, where his comrades leaned on their hands against the sill.  The fourth fellow was very much older than the other three, and stood in distracted silence.  Although with them, he was not swimming in the eager anticipation that swirled around the younger ellyn.

As Círdan listened to their meandering comments on the view, he caught the accent Orongil had mentioned.  To be sure, it was not the mode of speech that had become widespread and common.  A clear indication they came from outside of Eglador and beyond Menegroth’s influence.  There was perhaps a hint of a tarawaith lilt.  And another nuance... almost Noldorin...

The eldest, the distracted fellow, suddenly raised a hand to his chest, as if he had felt a sudden pang.  He quickly turned round, his down-turned face troubled, and stepped away from the window – only to look up and seen that he and his companions were no longer alone.  Nevertheless, he did not speak up to inform his leader that others were present.  Instead, he froze; staring wide-eyed, hand to heart, with his lips parted in suspended speech.  Círdan sighed.  The sight of his beard sometimes did that to people.  Except, that the fellow is looking past me.  He turned to see... Glinnor?  His friend was staring back in the same disconcerted manner.

It was then that he could not longer resist the truth, and it flooded in, filling his heart and spirit.

By the Ulumúri!  Of course!!  And he too was struck and held spell-bound.

Of a sudden, he noticed an ache in his upper arm.  It loosed him, and he looked to find Orongil squeezing his arm.  His friend’s face was knotted in querulous worry, not only for his Lord but for his fellow councilor.  The anxious chieftain had not yet figured it out.  Círdan placed a hand over Orongil’s hand and smiled.  Not only to reassure him, but because of the unbidden mental picture of the clan-lord’s transformed face, when told that somehow the blatantly obvious had evaded the normally shrewd ellon.  Clever Orongil had intended to dazzle him with news of the lost colony – and instead had blind-sided himself!

Glinnor drew a ragged breath, and the unaware survivors turned around at the sound.  Círdan felt an ironic amusement that none of them were in the least startled by his beard, but that they were very startling to him.

The fellow on crutches had expertly come about as if he were stilt-walking a ladder, like a workman too lazy to climb down to move it to a new spot.  Although terribly crippled, the ellon was full of bright good spirits, which would not be dampened by adversity or the arresting sight of an ancient lord.

The younger of the brothers was a revelation.  He had elegantly spun in place and into a poised readiness that reminded Círdan immediately of young Elmo.  On the hunt and ready to leap to the chase!  Any doubts he had left about their lineage were swept away.  The older brother remained unflustered when he turned and realized that they had obviously been watched for some time.  It bespoke the kind of aplomb gained only at court.  Something to be expected in an eldest child.  However, aside from the difference in their physical stature, there was very little dissimilarity between the two brothers.  Their bright eyes were not grey but shining green.  As green as those of Oioloth.  Another clue which Orongil – the chieftain’s auntie too – had unwisely discounted.  But upon reconsideration, he had to assume that the survivors had helped everyone mistake who they actually were.

To his credit as their leader, after only a glancing exchange with Círdan, the older brother turned his attention to his motionless comrade’s plight.

“Calindor?” he softly queried, so as not to startle him.

At the sound of this name, Glinnor broke free of their shared trance and cried out, “My son!”

“Papa!”  The ellon who reached out a trembling hand was not a valiant mariner that had braved shipwreck.  He was but a quaking child.  One who had been wandering lost – bewildered and yearning – but was now at last found.

Father and son rushed into each other’s arms and wept for joy.

Gladness for his friend and the loved one returned welled up in Círdan, filling his eyes with happy tears.  Tears fell from the eyes of Calindor’s elated companions, while their faces also shone with great gladness for a friend.  And for themselves, as well.  Here was the first real reward gained from their daring.

The hard grip upon Círdan’s arm painfully tighten.  The emotional embrace had enlightened the chieftain, but there was no smile upon Orongil’s face.  Círdan had thought that they would be laughing upon his realizing that through all the time the clan-lord had sheltered these strangers, he had utterly missed seeing the wonderful truth.  Instead, Círdan felt the gravity of the chieftain’s growing alarm.  Thus, he realized that he too had been slow in understanding.  Only now did he grasp the adverse ramifications of this return from Valinor, and how much greater they were for the Elmoi than for any other people of the Eglath.

As the eldest son of the eldest son, the older brother had claim to any hereditary entitlements held by any of Elmo’s other children.  The peace and order, which the clan nobility strove to maintain in the long-settled realms and newly-settled lands of Beleriand, could be completely undone by the appearance of this new heir.  He was a threat to the clan’s carefully wrought, but brittle, balance of power.

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

eldar/elda – elves/elf - the name Oromë gave the quendi who would follow him to Aman

eledhwaith – star-folk These were Elwë’s people within the Lindar.

nenwaith – lake-folk These were Nowë’s people within the Lindar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk These were Lenwë’s people within the Lindar.

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo and Oioloth had other children, after Galadhon, who in turn had children of their own.  Elu Thingol and Melian rule; the Elmoi govern.

Máramaica [Miaca] – OC friend of the brothers, as did practically all the members of the quest, he has kin in Beleriand

Calindor – OC friend of the brothers, a contemporary of Galadhon and who was also sent as a child to Aman

Glinnor – OC father of Calindor, a friend of Círdan, the Steward of Eglarest

Orongil – OC friend of Círdan, lord chief of the Elmoi living in and around Eglarest, a grandson of Elmo

Oioloth – an OC wife for Elmo, she is the younger sister of Denethor, son of Lenwë

Gilwë – an OC father for Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo, he appears in another fanfic: Daeredair.

Ringwën – an OC sister for Gilwë

= Concerning the basic premise =

Círdan’s Beard – About this unique feature, the Professor says that the Shipwright was merely old, in the “third cycle of life”.  Where then are all those others of his generation that would also show signs of extreme age?  Does it mean none but he, of all in the host that embarked on the Great Journey, were near as old as the first who awakened?  Where are those other ancients?  Were they all Unwilling and did not embark on the March?  Do they shave?  Or did death and the Dark Rider get all of their number, but Nowë?  I sincerely hope that was not the case.  Perhaps those later released from Mandos in Aman had their youthfullness restored.  What I would like to think is that, by using extensive Elven magic in defense of his people before the arrival of Oromë, the Shipwright aged much more quickly than an Elf normally would.

The Route to the Blessed Realm – I think the Eldar were lead northward by Oromë from Cuiviénen with the idea that they would travel by land around the Great Sea to Valinor.  The Eglath in Beleriand would certainly consider this as the route to take, if later they decided to proceed on their own.  It was during the Great Journey that the way had become blocked by a post-war effect.  After the loss of the Lamps and defeating Melkor, Ennor settled into some dark changes.  The north became colder and colder, allowing a dangerous icecap to slowly form.  Eventually, the ice-flows blocked safe passage on foot.  Thus, travel plans had to change as the straggling line of Eldar made it to Beleriand.  Ulmo had to transport them on an island across the separating waters.  For if the island was always the Valar’s plan, the quendi hosts should have been led due east to the sea or, after getting that far, followed the Anduin to the coast.  There should be a really good reason to make the Eldar cross the daunting White Mountains, then the Blue Mountains, before ending up encamped in Beleriand, just to wait for transport to southern climes.