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Chapter 4 – The Shipwright greets shipwrecked strangers

Círdan gently pried Orongil’s vice-like grip from his arm and rested a comforting hand of his own upon his friend’s back.  The chieftain looked to him, and he returned an encouraging nod to tell Orongil that he did indeed have his support in handling any crisis of government, whether that was caused by a total stranger or the descendent of his own sworn-brother.

The set of the Orongil’s mouth was firm as he heaved a determined sigh.  The foreseeable future of the Elmoi had taken a turn, and if the Prince chose to accommodate this grandson at the expense of his other children, the current expectations of his faction within the clan might not come to fruition.  Even so, he would do as always and work together with his Lord towards the best for the realm, not just for his family.

Círdan raised his hand to press his friend’s shoulder.  He was grateful for the chieftain’s loyalty to all of the people of the Falas.

Having found his bearings, Orongil stepped forward to undertake the formalities, and thereby act to keep the ship of state on course despite the threat of foul weather.

Which made Círdan think even better of him.  By proceeding with introductions, his friend and councilor had also chosen to set aside the personal offence given by outsiders whom he had kindly sheltered and who had, whether by lies or omissions, purposefully deceived him.  Círdan caught the eye of the elder brother and did not withhold a disapproving expression from his face.  I would not speak any more on your behalf until you had apologized.  His opinion was clearly understood.

“My guests!” Orongil called.  By hand or kerchief or sleeve, the three younger ellyn wiped dry their teary eyes and gave sober attention to their host.  The brothers came away from the window and across the chamber.  But, the elder brother as leader gestured for the crippled fellow, who was once more resting against the pillar, to stay where he was rather than make the cumbersome trip across the room.  When he stood before clan-lord, the band’s leader also gestured a request for his host to refrain, so that he might speak with him first.  The chieftain, likely anticipating what his guest wished to say, obliged.

“Lord Orongil, I must apologize for not being as honest with you as you deserved.  My only excuse is that past unpleasantries advised caution.  That as few people as possible should know the truth about us.”  He straightened his shoulders and inclined his head with eyes downcast.  “I respect you, my lord, and am beholden to your generous assistance.  It was never my intention to cause you undue concern or embarrassment.  Only to keep my comrades safe.”

“I understand.”  Not unexpectedly, Orongil’s tone of voice was diplomatic rather than cordial.  “And you must understand, when I do the same and put my people’s welfare ahead of yours, I do not mean you harm.”  The offender nodded before raising his eyes; his expression also neutral.  “Good, and from now on, let us be more honest with each other.  For honesty is always best.”  When offered a hand in agreement, Orongil clasped arms with him.  But, although the apology was graciously accepted, the clan-lord kept an emotional distance from his kinsman.

Círdan sighed.  It was sad when friendship was blocked by politics.  They were less alike in appearance than might be expected of close cousins, but they were very alike in heart and spirit.  Plainly, the two of them had been on the path to becoming friends, but now the chieftain felt constrained.  Like himself with Thingol, Orongil was expected to stand with his lord father on important matters, and who knew what either of those lords’ stance would be when confronted with a new contestant for rulership in Beleriand.

Orongil resumed his task, his natural tendency to smile noticeably weak.  He stepped aside to clear the way for those he would present to the Shipwright.

“My Lord, “ he announced.  “Heron Calasilmo... Galadhonion.”

Donning a noble countenance, the prince took a few steps forward and bowed.  This was accomplished so smoothly that Círdan’s felt his earlier impression that Calasilmo had spent time at court confirmed.  Even closer now, he could see that the prince was not that much older than his cousin’s son.  Galadhon had apparently wed rather late for being one of Elmo’s children.  But, perhaps that is the leisurely manner of marriage in paradise.

Upon his straightening up, Círdan gazed deep into Calasilmo’s sparkling eyes, and he saw something more than the starlight that shone from within all the eledhwaith.  This other light was less glinting, more glowing – pervasive and pure.  It was the same light as in Elu Thingol’s eyes.  The Light of the Trees!  Another clue Orongil had missed or misinterpreted!  He looked at the other two young ellyn and saw the Light in them.

“His brother, Heron Teleporno.”

The younger prince came forward and stood at Calasilmo’s right shoulder.  He bowed; his every movement exceedingly reminiscent of his male forbearers.  A feature Círdan was beginning to find disconcerting.  But, there was not much chance of remedying it.  Galadhon had been so young when sent away with his uncle that one could not as easily say how much of a resemblance there was in the brothers to their father rather than to Gilwë.  Or in the younger brother’s case, to Elmo.

“Their comrade, Hír Máramaica Aelinion.”  The crippled ellon stood up on his crutches and bowed his head.  The face he raised beamed with optimistic hope, and Círdan understood his hope that his father’s name might be known to the Shipwright.  Unhappily though, he did not know the name.

“And their comrade, Hír Calindor Glinnorion.”  Heads turned with anticipation to Glinnor and his son.  However, the pair ignored them, showing no sign of ending their embrace or whispered conversation, so Orongil continued on.

“Here is my liege, Círdan Aran Falas, Lord of all the land that meets the Belegaer.

Círdan bowed to his visitors, then said, “Welcome, travelers!  Here you shall find comfort and rest!”  He addressed their leader personally saying, “Calasilmo, son of Galadhon!  I loved your great-grandfather as my brother.  I love your grandfather as my nephew.  I fondly remember your father as a child.  Come!  Let me greet you as my close kinsman!”  He held open his arms to receive him.

Calasilmo hesitated, a bit unsure about the effusive invitation.  But after looking to Orongil, who gave his endorsement, then back to Círdan, he smiled, pleased to accept.  He came and embraced the ancient lord wholeheartedly.  Upon release, they smiled at each other in instant mutual affection.  Círdan kissed Calasilmo’s brow, and the prince blushed.  Círdan’s amused surprise at this bashfulness prompted his newest nephew to explain.

“Forgive me, my lord, I have been but a grandson and to none save Olue Ciriáran.”

“Is that what he calls himself now?”  Círdan’s grin broadened.  To hear this epessë for Olwë!  But, was not Calasilmo also a nephew to Olwë’s sons?  He was suddenly very eager to learn all that had happened to his departed kin and kindred.

“No, my lord,” chuckled Calasilmo.  “Our people call him that.”

“Ah, then I take it, this sign of appreciation has not changed him?”

“If you mean he still does not demonstrate fond feelings any differently in private than in public, then no,” was the cheerfully-ironic response, “he has not changed.”

Nonetheless, though the king’s gestures of affection were as ever less than lavish, it was clear to Círdan that this equally wry grandson knew that Olwë loved him.  Where apparently, his uncles did not.  When Calasilmo stepped back, he offered the same invitation to his delighted brother.  The younger prince’s hug was more emphatic and provoked a wheezy chortle before being loosed and kissed.

“You have your grandfather’s strength of limb, Teleporno!”  Like particular Elmoi, this brother had a very charming smile besides.

“So, Grandfather Olwë has said.  But please, Uncle Círdan, will you not call me Telpë?”

“If that is your preference, of course – Telpë!.”  He flicked a glance at Calasilmo, and Telpë’s eyes twinkled as only the eyes of a sibling bent on mischief could.

“My brother?  Well, I always just call him Isil.  In fact, we all do, and so you should too.  Not his preference, of course, but he has learned to answer to it.”  Isil cast an exasperated expression to the ceiling, since it would be no more effective if sent in his brother’s direction.

Círdan laughed, well entertained by both his new nephews.  When Telpë moved back, he motioned for them to please step aside, so he could address Máramaica.

“I wish that I could welcome you on behalf of your family, Máramaica.  But, I am sorry; I do not know your father.  Perhaps, your grandfather?”

“Dollo, my lord.”  The ellon’s optimism had not faded even yet.  Círdan did not like having nothing for him but another disappointing answer.

“I am sorry, sir.  I know naught of that name, either.  Nonetheless, you are as welcome as are your companions.”  He walked over to Máramaica – who was somewhat taken aback by such deference – and placed his hands upon the young fellow’s shoulders.  “Consider this house your home until we have found your kin, however long that may take.”  The Shipwright’s thoughtfulness almost overwhelmed Máramaica’s ability to speak.  His eyes welled up anew.

“You are generous beyond words to thank you, my lord,” he struggled to say.  And still, he found a smile.  “And... and everyone calls me Maica.”

“Then, I shall also – Maica.”  He gave Maica’s shoulders a squeeze before releasing him.

Happy to have encouraged someone he knew would be a future friend, he moved to the center of the room and motioned for everyone to join him there.  They came and gathered around, including Maica; all eager to hear his wisdom concerning this momentous occasion.

“Glinnor, you too must attend,” he commanded.  “I need your council.  You and Calindor may have all the time you wish later.”

“Yes, my lord, of course,” answered the steward, and he brought them both together to stand before Círdan.  “My lord, this is my eldest, Calindor.  My Lord, Círdan.”  Calindor bowed as well as he might for being bound tight as he was by his father’s possessive arm around his shoulders.  Círdan returned the bow.

“Welcome, Calindor,” he said, with a warm smile.  “Though I doubt my greeting compares to your father’s.”

“Nothing compares,” stated Calindor, his voice thick with emotion.

“Come now, Glinnor.  Lend him to me for just a moment.”  The proud steward released his son, so that his friend could embrace him.  But, as soon as Calindor stepped back, Glinnor reclaimed him, sheltering him under his wing just as closely as before.  Calindor raised his arm around his father’s back and hung that hand off Glinnor’s farther shoulder.

“Allow me to introduce my friends, Papa,” he said.

Congenial bows, as could be contrived given the hindrances, were exchanged between Calindor’s father and his son’s younger comrades; and the strong emotions stirred up earlier by their reunion rose again, preventing the accompaniment of polite phrases of more than a few words length.

“So, are we now all nicely acquainted?” Círdan archly mused.  Which evoked appreciative laughter.  “Then, let us speak of great matters.”

When he had everyone’s full attention, he surveyed the circle of faces.  It was Calasilmo’s resolve, shining as brightly as Maica’s optimism, that revealed to him what boded ahead in the fog of time.

“Isil, Orongil has said to me that your ship was wrecked, but that you wished to build another... in order to return to Valinor?”

Isil nodded in solemn confirmation.  Orongil looked sharply at his cousin.  Upon understanding their true origin, he had disregarded that stated intention as merely a ploy to get to see the Lord.  However, Isil had indeed meant it, and Círdan shared his friend’s frustration at the impossibility of that ideal goal.

“If you have seen the shipyards, nephew, you have seen the limitations of our craft.  My own works included.  One of our ships has less chance then yours of arriving safely in the far west.”

“My lord?” Isil courteously ventured to speak.  To which Círdan gave his permission.  The prince’s voice was grave.  “Our misfortunes were due solely to my inadequacy, not that of our vessel.  I bear the blame for its destruction... and the loss of the crew.”

“Please you, my lord!” interrupted Telpë.  “What he says is not so!”  Isil’s visible displeasure at his brother’s terrible manners did not deter the younger prince from explaining his outburst, with or without leave from anyone.  “He is not to blame.  He was fooled by Ossë into thinking he would help us.  Else, our ship could have easily made it to your harbor.”

“But, it did not withstand the reef,” Orongil quietly pointed out.

“And so, it would not have withstood the Helcaraxë,” agreed Círdan.  He was sympathetic to the guilt Isil felt, and gently asked him, “Is that when you sought the Maia’s help?  Very understandable when in those dire straits…”  Besides, what was one foolish decision weighed against the monumentally foolish choice, by all the crew, to risk their lives to find their forsaken kin.

“No, my lord.”  Isil became guarded, and Círdan worried he had stumbled into an even more sensitive subject for his nephew.  “I called upon him when we ran out of drinking water.  We knew, as well as any, that we would not safely reach these shores by following the northern coast.  Therefore, we came over open seas, where ice and shallows would not be a danger.”

“But, where we did encounter other perils that might well sink a less sturdy ship,” emphatically added his brother.  “And made it through!”

“Stop interrupting, Telpë,” Isil flatly warned him.

Neither Círdan nor Orongil could respond, they were so astounded.  It was Glinnor who gasped in wonder and spoke.

“Open seas?”  He turned to his son, amazed.  “You crossed the Great Sea?”

“Yes... “ was Calindor’s hesitant reply.  He looked to his young leader, who silently gave his leave to speak openly, probably for the first time since they had landed.  “Isil was our pilot,” he proudly told his father and the other lords.  “He figured out how and by what stars to find Beleriand again.  And he will get us back.”  Calindor turned a worshipful gaze upon Calasilmo.  “He is a genius.”  Whereupon, the prince turned crimson, and his brother ungraciously snorted back a laugh.

“Gwanur... can you... ?” asked Orongil.  The chieftain was so stunned he had fallen back into the familiarity they had obviously had before this audience.  The mortified Isil would not look at his cousin, only at the pair of boots opposite him.

“Yes.  I can guide a ship to Aman... by the stars.”

Círdan’s suspended speech was not entirely due to the shocking courage it took to sail across the sea instead of following the coastline, nor to claims of genius.  But, more to his having been personally warned – by the Powers themselves – not to try the very same thing.  For if he ever did, he would certainly die in vain.  He had not spoken of it to anyone.  Not ever.  His doom, They had decreed in that moment on the beach, was other than drowning in a futile attempt to catch up to the island bearing away the Teleri before sight of it was lost.  And here was the reward he had waited ennin for.  This moment, right now, was the time foretold when his patience would prove wise.  His doom had arrived.  Finally.

“Such advanced navigation... is beyond our skill or knowledge,” admitted Orongil.

“As is such a ship beyond our ability to construct,” added Glinnor.

“No longer!  For we are here to help you!”  Telpë’s enthusiasm simply overrode any obedience to Isil’s express order.  “You are no longer the Forsaken!” he proclaimed.

“We have long ceased to think of ourselves as abandoned,” Orongil coolly informed him.

The restrained resentment behind his words left no question that the clan-lord took offence at Telpë’s presumptive declaration.  Which squelched the younger cousin far more effectively than had any of his brother’s admonishments.  Círdan allowed himself a cynical smile.  Those who dwelt in Aman were going to find it hard to understand that there were people who might not seek a home with them there.  And that choosing to stay here did not mean they had become Unwilling.

“As to your capacity to help, Telpë,” he interceded.  “When I look at your hands, that is something I doubt.”  Although the prince bore calluses evident of hard labor, it was obvious he was no carpenter.  None of them were.  “Your shipbuilder was among the drowned, Isil?”

“No,” was the prince’s calm reply.  He looked up at Círdan; his original aplomb recovered.  “In fact, we had no master craftsmen aboard at all.  We brought their knowledge with us instead.”

“And how did you do that, gwadorion?”  Even if a genius, how could someone unskilled and inexperienced show him how to improve upon craftsmanship no other had come close to equaling?

At his brother’s indication, Telpë readily went to one side of the entry door and picked up a heavy medium-sized chest, bringing it to be set down across the arms of a nearby chair.  Círdan figured this was the treasure Orongil had spoken of.  The lid was sealed all-way-round, and it was bound with metal straps.  The hinged clasp was encased in a molded seal.

“Everything you need is inside,” said Isil.  With the showy wave of an open hand, Telpë presented the chest to him.  A knowing grin hovered behind the younger prince’s closed lips.

He hesitated, suddenly unsettled.  Everything he needed?  Mere treasure could not buy the expertise needed.  Surely, the brothers realized that.  So, what exactly was inside?  A gift from the Valar?  Was this about the vision shown to him of a flying ship?  Would a ship built by him, using this gift, take to the sky and fly with the gulls above the waves?  He turned to Orongil so that he might keep his hands clasped together and no one would see them shaking.

“You deserve to do the honors, my friend.  There are tools in the cabinet over there.”

Telpë leap to fetch the tools for the chieftain.  Orongil carefully sawed off the embossed seal, intact, with a wire and passed it on to him.  Strangely, there was nothing distinctive or evocative about the white tree depicted on the weathered disc.  Although, it might once have been chased with silver.  But, there was no tingle of fate, which he sometimes felt when beholding a symbol of authority.

Hammer and small chisel in hand, the clan-lord broke through the bands.  He worked to pry open the clasp, whose lock had been welded solid.  When that was accomplished, he handed off the tools, back to his younger cousin.  The wire proved useful again for slicing through the sealed seams of the lid.  After glancing over for final permission, Orongil took hold of the flapping clasp and raised the lid.

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!

hir/hiril – sir or lord/dame or lady

heron/heryn – lord or prince/ lady or princess

epessë – after-name - a nickname or given as a title of honor or admiration

gwanur – kin

aran – king (also translates as ‘Lord’ for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

gwadorion/gwadoriel – nephew/niece brother-son/brother-daughter who is a child of a brother who is not a sibling

= Concerning the basic premise =

The Grinding Ice – Although they sailed in the swan ships of the Amanyar Teleri, the flowing pack-ice halted the Exiles’ return to Beleriand.  Upon reaching the frozen gap between continents, even after all they had dared and endured, many talked of going back.  Sailing through the Helecaxë was that daunting a prospect – truly dire straits.

During this delay, Fëanor abandoned Fingolfin’s people rather than deal with them any longer.  A wind, either fortunate or contrived, blew from the north-west and took the absconded ships ”east and somewhat south” so “he passed over without loss” making it to land at Losgar.  He had the ships burned expressly to prevent anyone from going back to get those left for dead.  Thus, Fingolfin and his people had no choice.  They managed to cross the ice on foot.  Many died.  Still, many lived.  But, the Professor says that living in exile would slowly drain the Noldor of the strength that brought them through this trial.  If an Exile host had attempted a return journey by this path in later times, all would have perished.

The Warning and Doom Given to Círdan –

“Then, it is said, he stood forlorn looking out to sea, and it was night, but far away he could see a glimmer of light upon Eressëa ere it vanished into the West.  Then, he cried aloud: ‘I will follow that light, alone if none will come with me, for the ship that I have been building is now almost ready.’  But, even as he said this he received in his heart a message, which he knew to come from the Valar, though in his mind it was remembered as a voice speaking in his own tongue.  And the voice warned him not to attempt this peril; for his strength and skill would not be able to build any ship able to dare the winds and waves of the Great Sea for many years yet.  ‘Abide now that time, for when it comes then will your work be of utmost worth, and it will be remembered in song form nay ages after.’  ‘I obey,’ Cirdan answered, and then it seemed to him that he saw (in a vision maybe) a shape like a white boat, shining above him, that sailed west through the air and as it dwindled in the distance it looked like a star of so great a brilliance that it cast a shadow of Círdan upon the strand where he stood.”

“From that night onwards Cirdan received a foresight touching all matters of importance, beyond the measure of all other Elves upon Middle-earth.”

 – Círdan – Last Writings – The Peoples of Middle-earth – The History of Middle-earth

Similar to other last writings, “features of this account” are missing or in contradiction to the Silmarillion and particularly LOTR and its appendices.