CROOKED: Mîn bain raeg

SUMMARY: Círdan learns something to his sorrow.

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Círdan woke with a start, wondering what was happening. His dreams had been dark of late and this last one....

The Lord of Mithlond shook his head, as if to clear it of the last shreds of the nightmare that was haunting him. This was the third time he had had this same or a similar dream, yet he could never remember fully what they were about. All that remained of them afterwards was a cold dread stealing into his fëa.

"Bah!" he muttered in disgust as he climbed out of bed and grabbed his nightrobe, thrusting his feet into bed slippers. He moved unerringly in the dark to the wash stand and poured some water into the basin, splashing his face to wash the rest of his sleep away. Moving out onto the balcony that wrapped around the entire upper floor of the house, he could tell by the position of the stars that dawn was still several hours away. He strolled along, moving northward, until he was facing west and frowned.

"Odd," he muttered aloud, "there was no hint of a sea storm coming our way." He stared at the dark clouds that were piling up on the horizon well beyond the Havens. He could see flashes of lightning though the storm was too far away for thunder to be heard. High rolling waves were beginning to rush towards the shore and Círdan scowled. This storm looked to be bad, perhaps the worst he had seen in many a long yén. Turning around he entered the house where he found himself in the upper gallery. Running towards his bedroom he began shouting.

"Arminas! Galdor!"

Even as he reached his room, two ellyn, still fully dressed in spite of the lateness of the hour, came to him at a run, each with identical shocked looks on their fair faces. Without giving them time to ask the inevitable questions he ushered them inside and began to strip out of his night things and grab whatever tunic and leggings lay to hand.

"We have a sea storm coming our way," he told them. "Get everyone up. We need to get the ships batten down and..."

"Lord Círdan!" Galdor cried, cutting off the Shipwright’s words. "What are you talking about? There is no storm. Arminas and I were just down at the harbor not ten minutes ago. We saw no sign of a storm."

"Indeed, if anything, the sea is strangely calm," Arminas said, giving his lord a concerned look.

Círdan stared at them in consternation. "What are you two babbling about? Of course there’s a storm coming. Do you not think I know when one comes?"

Before either ellon could answer, Círdan strode out of his bedroom and down the hall to the central staircase leading to the outside. Arminas and Galdor followed him. Through the front door and down the steps they went, making for the outer terrace overlooking the harbor. Círdan came to a shocked halt as he stared out across the Haven to see the western sky clear of any cloud, the stars burning brightly, the sea, as Arminas had remarked, calm... too calm.

"How can this be?" he asked, a sense of dread beginning to rise within him. "I swear, there were clouds on the horizon heralding a storm such as I have not seen since the War of Wrath."

"Perhaps it was a... waking vision, lord, sent to you by Lord Ulmo," Galdor suggested with some degree of uncertainty. He had never seen the Shipwright so nonplused before in all the long years of their acquaintance.

For a moment Círdan did not speak, merely stood there staring out to sea as if searching for something that wasn’t there. Then, almost to himself, he nodded. "I have been plagued by dark dreams of late," he said softly. "Perhaps I was still dreaming and did not know it."

"If Lord Ulmo has sent you a vision of such a storm as you describe," Arminas said, frowning slightly, "perhaps it would be well for us to secure the harbor."

"But we have no idea when or if such a storm will happen," Galdor protested. "For how long do we secure the harbor?"

"For as long as it takes until I am assured by Lord Ulmo or even Lord Ossë that no such storm is coming, or that it comes indeed," Círdan stated, interrupting the two ellyn’s conversation. "Alert the harbormaster, Galdor," he ordered even as he turned to go back inside the house. "I want every ship secured before the second hour after dawn. Arminas, come with me."

Galdor was wise enough to his lord’s moods not to argue but gave Círdan his obeisance and started down the path that would lead to the harbor, while Arminas followed the Shipwright into the house and down the lefthand hall to Círdan’s office. The Elf-lord went to his desk and drew out a piece of parchment and a quill and was quickly composing a letter, speaking even as he was writing.

"Take this to Lindon," he said to Arminas. "See that Ereinion receives this immediately. No one else. Do I make myself clear?"

"But why....?"

"He needs to be warned of the impending storm," Círdan replied brusquely, sealing the missive with wax imprinted with his personal sigil of a ship. "Lindon is more vulnerable than we and he will need to make the necessary preparations."

Arminas nodded as Círdan handed him the letter. "I will take the swiftest horse."

Círdan nodded. "Go with the blessings of the Valar."

****

Dawn saw the Havens a hive of activity as the Elves hastened to secure the ships and the harbor against a storm for which there were no signs and none could sense coming, yet they trusted their lord implicitly and there were no arguments about it. Círdan walked along the quays, heading towards his private skiff. He had sent orders ahead to have it ready for sailing by the time he arrived.

"Do you think it safe to travel outside the harbor, lord?" Galdor asked him as they met beside the boat. "If this storm comes up without warning...."

"I do not intend to go far," Círdan assured him, "only to the harbor mouth so I may commune more easily with Lord Ulmo if he will deign to grant me an audience. I cannot get it out of my mind that something portentous has happened or will happen."

In minutes the skiff was making its way past the harbor bar and into the rougher waters of the open sea. Círdan skillfully brought the little boat to a small island, little more than a sandy knoll with clumps of sparse vegetation. It was where he normally would go to speak with Lord Ulmo or Ossë whenever the need drove him. Beaching the boat with practiced ease, he sat on the highest part of the island where he had long ago placed a wooden bench and looked out towards the west, towards Valinor. Schooling himself to stillness, he sent out a silent plea, hoping it would be heard. Sometimes his calls went unanswered.

Anor was well above the horizon, shining down upon the harbor before a wave that was larger than all the others rose from the depths of the sea and then Lord Ulmo was there, standing waist-deep in the surf. Círdan stood and offered the Vala his obeisance.

"Thou callest, my son, and I come. Wherefore hast thou summoned me?"

"Summoned, lord?" Círdan asked in confusion. "Never have I summoned thee. All I have ever done is asked for thine attention if thou wouldst so deign to give it."

Ulmo’s expression became unreadable to the Elf. "What dost thou here, child?" the Vala of the Waters asked gently.

"Guren ôr enni," Círdan said simply.

"Of what doth it warn thee?"

"I do not know, lord," Círdan exclaimed, "save that thrice have I dreamt and the dreaming hath left me... disturbed. I woke in the middle of this very night and walked out to view the harbor and saw...."

"What didst thou see, Círdan?" the Vala asked when the Elf hesitated.

"A storm," he answered in a whisper, his expression stricken. "A storm such as I have not seen since the War of Wrath."

For a long moment the only sound was that of the waves crashing upon the beach as Vala and Elf stared at one another. Then Ulmo sighed and it was as if all of Arda sighed with him. Círdan felt a frisson of fear sweep across his fëa.

"Thou dost dream true, my son," Ulmo said at last. "The storm thou didst see cometh though it will not be felt upon these shores for several more days."

"What hath caused this storm, lord?" Círdan asked. "Hath Lord Ossë...."

"Nay," Ulmo said and there was a rumble of thunder that the Elf recognized as the Vala laughing. "Ossë is not to blame for this. The blame is squarely upon the shoulders of the Edain of Númenor, for they have attempted that which should never have been assayed. They have tried to conquer Valinor... tried and failed."

Círdan felt his world tip sideways and he suddenly found himself on his knees, the blood draining from his face as shock took over. Ulmo leaned down and with a single finger gently caressed the Elf’s cheek. The blackness that had threatened to overwhelm the Elf subsided and the ellon could see again, breathe again.

"They did what!?"

Ulmo nodded. "And have been punished for their temerity. Even now Númenor sinks beneath the waves never to be seen again and the wrath of the Valar bloweth nine ships of the Faithful towards these shores and...." Here the Vala hesitated, as if he thought he might have said too much. Then he sighed again. "Ilúvatar in His wisdom hath removed Valinor from Arda."

Círdan shook his head, not sure he had heard correctly. "I... I don’t understand, lord."

"Mên dîr abant n’ Annûn, si mîn bain raeg. Valinor hath been removed from Arda," Ulmo reiterated. "Any who saileth West, be they Elf or Mortal, will find only new lands, mortal lands, where once were the Undying Lands."

"B-but how then? Shall we who reside here in Ennorath be sundered forever from our kin? What of those who wish to leave these shores, who have felt the Sea-longing and can no longer deny it?"

"Peace, child," Ulmo said. "The Elves will always be able to find the Straight Road if they so desire. Ilúvatar wishes not for the Firstborn to suffer for the follies of the Second Children."

Círdan shook his head again, unsure how to feel about this news. Then, he looked up at the Vala. "How much time do we have?"

"More time than thou might otherwise," Ulmo said gravely, "for it is in my mind that Ilúvatar Himself sent thee these dreams as a warning."

"And thou didst not think to do the same, lord?" Círdan could not help asking with a quirk of his lips and a wry look in his eyes.

Ulmo laughed again. "I have been busy of late, child," he said not unkindly. "I would have gotten around to thee eventually."

Now Círdan laughed as well, though his humor did not last long. He sighed, thinking of the destruction of the Isle of Gift given to the Edain by the Valar themselves. He mourned for their loss and dreaded having to tell young Elrond that the descendants of his brother had fallen so far into Shadow. Then he remembered something the Vala had said...

"Ships?" he asked, giving Ulmo a hard stare. "Thou didst mention ships flying before the storm?"

Ulmo nodded. "Nine ships of the Faithful led by Elendil the Tall make their way to these shores even as we speak. Four will land here, the other five have been driven southward."

"Then I had best return to Mithlond and warn the High King to expect visitors," Círdan said drolly and Ulmo smiled.

"I am sure young Gil-galad would appreciate the warning." With that, the Lord of Waters turned and walked out into the sea, slipping beneath the waves, his trident the last thing seen.

Círdan stared out towards the west and south in the direction of drowned Númenor. No sign of storm or ships was there, all was deceptively calm. With a shake of his head at the foolishness of Mortals, he climbed back into his skiff and raised the sail to take him back into the harbor and the Havens, already mentally composing his next letter to Ereinion as he went.

****

All words and phrases are Sindarin.

Mîn bain raeg: ‘All Roads are Bent’.

Yén: An elvish century equal to 144 solar years.

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Guren ôr enni: ‘My heart warned me’.

Fëa: Spirit, soul.

Mên dîr abant n’ Annûn, si mîn bain raeg: ‘A straight road went towards the West, now all roads are bent’. This phrase is attested in Qenya: ‘Malle téra lende númenna, ilya sí maller raikar’ [See The Lost Road, HoME V: Part I ‘The Fall of Númenor and the Lost Road’, Section III ‘The Lost Road’, Subsection (i) ‘The Opening Chapters’, Chapter 2 ‘Alboin and Audoin’]. In LoTR-style Quenya this would be rendered: ‘Mallë téra lendë númenna, ilyë sí maller raicë’.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.