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Tales from Vairë's Loom  by Fiondil

A Mystery at Long Lake

Summary: An unexpected find, long hidden under the waters of the Long Lake, brings two curious and surprising visitors to its shores. Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #3, ‘Riddle’, and the randomly generated prompts: Círdan/Esgaroth/Ship.

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Esgaroth, Third Age 2463:

Gorlas, Master of Esgaroth, stared nervously at the two distinguished visitors standing before him in the town’s council chamber, fumbling with some papers on his desk to hide his surprise and confusion. What was he to do, he wondered, a rising sense of panic beginning to take over. One of the visitors was known to him personally, though he had had so few dealings with him that he might as well be as much a stranger as the other, about whom he had heard only rumors, and what rumors! These two were legends and he had no idea how to deal with legends. And their request! It made no sense. Why ever would they...? He swallowed, and paled, realizing he was keeping these two personages waiting for his answer.

"It’s only a boat," he said almost pleadingly. "Why would you want to visit an old wreck, m-my lords?"

Círdan the Shipwright gave him a slight smile. "Call it professional interest," he said mildly. "I have traveled a long way to see this... wreck, as you call it."

"And I am curious as well," King Thranduil said. "I have heard that no one can identify it."

The Master nodded. "It is true. It is a boat like no other that we have ever seen or crafted for ourselves." He sighed, running a hand through his greying locks. "Very well, my lords. I will take you to the site myself."

"You need not do that," Círdan assured him. "We only require the use of one of your people’s boats and someone to guide us to the site."

Gorlas gave them a mirthless grin. "No. I insist on accompanying you, my lords. As it is, I have yet to see this wreck for myself. I’ve been far too busy with administrative details to do so. Your coming here merely gives me the excuse I’ve been looking for to escape my duties for a time."

The two visitors chuckled appreciatively and bowed in acceptance. "Then we will welcome your company, Master," Thranduil said.

"I’ll make the necessary arrangements," Gorlas said. "We can leave tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you have not made other arrangements, I would like to invite you to stay with me during your visit."

"Thank you. We would be most grateful." The two Elf-lords gave him respectful bows.

Gorlas nodded, wondering how he was going to break the news to his wife as to whom they would be entertaining this evening. Well, he would worry about that later. First, he had to make the arrangements for them to visit the wreck.

****

Dawn was only a hint on the horizon when the Master of Esgaroth and his two guests made their way to the quay where a sailboat was waiting for them. The day promised fair and the lake was calm as glass, though there was a breeze that would allow them to use the sails rather than rowing. As soon as they were aboard, the orders were given and the sailors removed the moorings and set off. They headed south from the town, angling slightly to the east.

"It’s not far," Gorlas said. "In fact, it’s amazing that no one has ever found it before this, but this drought we have been having the last three years has brought the waters to a dangerously low level. If we don’t have rain soon, and lots of it, it will go ill for us."

"The rains will come," Thranduil said with calm assurance. "Have no fear of that. But it is well that this drought has happened, else this remarkable find would never have been discovered, no?"

Gorlas couldn’t argue with that and nodded. The rest of the trip was done in silence as the sun rose and bathed the lake with her welcoming light, turning the water from ebony to purple and then blue. The two Elf-lords sat calmly in the middle of the boat, gazing about with great interest, ignoring the furtive glances of the sailors as they went about their duties. Neither seemed inclined to chat and Gorlas had to keep himself from fidgeting.

After about a half hour, one of the sailors, who was acting as look-out, cried out, "There it be, Master." He pointed and everyone craned their necks to see.

"Bring us as close as you can," Gorlas commanded and in short order they were coming beside the hulk. Gorlas and his visitors rose for a better look, Gorlas with less grace than the other two.

The Master glanced down at the wreck, taking in its form, but not really seeing it, for he was more intrigued by the reactions of his guests at the sight. The two Elf-lords wore different expressions as they gazed at what lay below. King Thranduil’s was mainly one of surprise, but Lord Círdan...

Gorlas had to look away, the light that seemed to come from the ancient Elf’s eyes was too bright for him to endure and the look of awe on Lord Círdan’s face made Gorlas feel as if he had somehow intruded upon a very private moment for the Elf and he felt himself blushing, embarrassed without knowing why. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he returned his attention to the wreck and as he looked at it more closely, he began to understand what the two Elf-lords must be feeling.

Even to the casual eye this had once been a thing of grace and beauty far surpassing anything Mortals could ever hope to craft. In fact, it still was in spite of it being sunken. Gorlas was no expert, for his family had never been involved in shipbuilding, but this boat was exquisite, her lines clean. He had no doubt that seeing her ply the waters of the Long Lake would have been a grand experience. And to ride her!

And then he noticed something, something odd about the boat, or rather several somethings and he felt a shiver through his spine. In spite of having been underwater for untold years, there was no algae marring the clean lines of the ship and the anchor chain appeared to still be intact, its metal bright with no signs of rusting. Indeed, the boat could have sunk only yesterday, for the silver-grey timbers had suffered no rot during the long years of its drowning. And were those sails!? It was difficult to see through the murk but Gorlas was sure that sails still hung from the single mast and they did not seem to have rotted in all these years. Yet, that was impossible, wasn’t it?

He shook his head, shying away from that thought and its implications. Instead, he took in more details of the boat and noticed that the timbers seemed to glow with a soft light. At first he thought he was merely seeing the sunlight reflecting off the waters, but when the light suddenly dimmed around them as a cloud hid the sun, Gorlas could see the timbers still glowing with a soft silvery light of their own and he felt himself shivering again with awe.

Some of the planks were oddly shaped he noticed and Gorlas was puzzled by them, not sure if he was seeing them correctly through the shifting light and the distortion of the waters. Looking towards the prow he could just make out that it was carved in the shape of a swan’s neck and head and he suddenly realized with a rising sense of excitement that those oddly shaped planks along the sides were actually meant to be wings. The ship was carved in the shape of a swan!

There was no evidence that he could see that the hull had been breached, so why did it sink? And why in this spot? There weren’t even any rocks in this part of the lake that she might have run into. As he contemplated that mystery he realized that the two Elf-lords had been speaking softly in their own language. He followed the conversation with some difficulty, for though he spoke Sindarin well enough, he would be the first to admit that he was far from fluent in it.

"What do you think?" Thranduil asked, allowing himself to sound as excited as he was feeling.

Círdan smiled knowingly at the younger Elf. "It is one of ours," he said. "No Mortal built this boat."

"Obviously," Thranduil replied, now sounding impatient. "The question is, what, by all that is holy, is it doing here?"

"A better question is, why is it even here in the first place?" Círdan retorted, stroking his silvery-grey beard, frowning slightly. He felt himself unsure in the face of this mystery and the presence of an elven ship where one should not have been was an affront to his sensibilities. Master Gorlas was incorrect to call it a boat. What lay below them was definitely a ship, one that would not have looked out of place plying the waves of Belegaer along side his own grey ships.

Thranduil gave the Shipwright a searching look. "It is not, by any chance, one of your ships, is it?"

Círdan shook his head. "No. It is not. We never came this way when we made the Great Migration and I never built any ships like this one until I settled on the shores of Beleriand."

"Then who built it?" the Woodland King asked, looking troubled. "Certainly none of the Evair. They would not have the skill."

"Are we so sure of that?" Círdan retorted. "What do we truly know of them save that they refused the Powers’ Call? In all the ages that have separated us from them, who can truly say what they were able to accomplish?"

Thranduil glanced worriedly at the ship lying beneath them, pondering its significance. "How long do you think it’s been lying there?"

The Shipwright shrugged. "Difficult to say." He then turned to Gorlas, speaking to him in the Common Tongue. "Are there any legends of Elves plying ships on this lake?"

Gorlas furrowed his brow in thought. "We of Esgaroth are relative newcomers to this area, as you may know," he said at last. "My great-great-grandsires came originally from Dale. There are legends which speak of a time when Men first arose in the East somewhere." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the sun. "Legends in which it is told how we met with another race, a race of beings of great beauty who lived in the deep forests who called themselves Cwin..er...um... Cwendai or something like."

"Quendi," Círdan supplied softly, ignoring Thranduil’s surprised look.

Gorlas nodded. "They were supposed to have taught the first Men much about the world, teaching them language and art and such." He gave them a self-deprecating shrug. "Nursery tales with no real basis in fact. We don’t even have any details to latch onto, only bits and pieces of legends of a time so far in the past as to be meaningless to us."

"And none of these legends and scraps of tales speak of ships such as this being plied on this lake?" Círdan asked.

"I do not know, lord," Gorlas said apologetically.

"It’s amazing that the ship’s form is almost identical to those you craft, Círdan," Thranduil ventured. "I well remember seeing your grey ships plying the waters between the Isle of Balar and the Havens of Sirion during the War of Wrath. If you had not said otherwise, I would have sworn this was one of your making."

"Yet, it is not, I assure you," Círdan said. He stooped over the bow for a closer look, then glanced up at his companion without rising. "Do not your people have stories?"

"When my sire and I came to the Great Greenwood, we were surprised that the Silvan Elves did not utilize boats for all that this lake was within their territory," the King of the Woodland Realm answered. "They fished from the river but they avoided the lake entirely. We were at a loss as to why." He chuckled, his fair face breaking out into rare humor. "You should have heard the furor from some of Adar’s councillors when he announced that he was willing to make trade agreements with the Mortals who were just beginning to build Esgaroth. It took some doing to convince them that we really did want Dorwinion wine and this was the easiest way to obtain it."

Círdan smiled as he straightened, remembering the irascible Oropher. Gorlas just stared at the two Elf-lords with something close to awe as he realized that they remembered something that was to him only history or even worse, legend.

"Did you ever learn the reason for their aversion to the lake?" Círdan asked.

"Only that something terrible happened under the dark of the stars," Thranduil replied. "They would not speak of it to us... outsiders." He cast them a wry grin. "To this day, I have never heard the tales that supposedly are whispered when we Sindar are nowhere near. Perhaps, when we return to my realm we should make enquiries."

"It would be interesting to see what we can learn, if anything," Círdan acknowledged, "but perhaps it will always remain a mystery, and is not life full of them?"

"It looks as if it has only just sunk," Gorlas ventured. "The wood isn’t even rotted and look how bright the anchor chain is. Why there’s not a speck of rust anywhere. How is that possible?"

Círdan merely shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. "It is after all an elven-built ship, Master Gorlas." He gave the Mortal a thin smile.

Gorlas blinked a number of times, not sure how to respond to that. Instead he asked a different question. "What should we do with it, lord?"

Círdan gave him an uncomprehending look. "Do? Why nothing, Master Gorlas. Let it lie where it is for all time. The rains that will come soon will drown it once again and return it to its watery grave. I would hesitate to do anything with it without Lord Ulmo’s permission."

"Perhaps you should ask him then," Thranduil said with a mischievous smile, and only Círdan knew his fellow Elf was half jesting.

Gorlas, however, wasn’t so sure. He blinked, trying to understand the Elf-lord’s words. He had a brief image, quickly suppressed of Lord Círdan standing there in the boat speaking to the Lord of Waters as that one rose out of the depths of the Lake. No. Perhaps it would be best not to ask Lord Ulmo’s permission.

"So we just leave it," he said, his tone wistful. Seeing it for the first time, he had gazed upon the wreck with no little awe, realizing that no Mortal hand had had the crafting of it. He felt an itch in the back of his mind, a desire to somehow salvage the wreck and bring it back to Esgaroth for study. Yet, the practical side of him realized that his people did not have the wherewithal to raise the hulk from its watery grave.

Círdan, at least, seemed to understand the Master’s mood. He smiled gently at him. "Save for the drought, we would never have known of its existence. Let us at least be thankful for that. Not all mysteries are meant to be solved. They give a depth of wonder to our lives that they might otherwise not have. My advice to you is to organize as many trips as you can for your people, especially your young ones, to view this marvel. Let them be touched by mystery and wonder and know that even we Elves do not have all the answers."

Gorlas nodded, feeling mollified. "I will do that," he said. "And I will have a pole set here to mark the place so that when the waters rise again we will still be able to tell where it is and as we ply our own boats up and down the lake we will see that pole and for a brief moment we will stay our course and wonder."

Both Elves nodded enthusiastically. "An excellent idea, good Master," Thranduil stated, then turned to Círdan. "And now, we must return to Esgaroth and the Woodland Realm. The others will be waiting for us and I left Legolas in charge of hospitality."

Círdan gave his fellow Elf a wry look. "And that’s a bad thing?"

"No, not really," Thranduil said with a chuckle, "but he’s young still, you know. He only turned five hundred a couple of decades ago."

Gorlas tried not to gawk at the two Elf-lords who thought five hundred years was ‘young’. It boggled the mind.

"I was surprised that Elrond, especially, did not wish to make the journey to see this," Círdan stated as he and Thranduil returned to their seats while Gorlas gave orders for the sailors to return to Esgaroth. "You would think that someone who claims to be a loremaster would be the first one on the site."

Thranduil nodded. "When I asked him why he did not wish to join us, he simply gave me that smile of his, you know the one I mean."

Círdan nodded, rolling his eyes. "Only too well."

Thranduil smiled in sympathy. "And then he said something rather curious," he continued.

"And what did he say?" Círdan enquired.

"He said, and I quote, ‘It is sometimes best not to enquire too closely into the past. It can be very perilous to those not ready to accept the truth of what they find."

"Curious, indeed," Círdan remarked, stroking his beard, "especially coming from one who’s very life’s blood is exploring the past and keeping it and its lessons ever before us." He sat for a moment in deep thought and then snorted in aggravation. "And then Mithrandir and Radagast have the nerve to say that when you’ve seen one wrecked ship you’ve seen them all."

Thranduil shrugged, as if to say he could not fathom the motives of others, nor did he wish to. "Now that the Watchful Peace has been broken, the opportunities for us to travel to each other’s realms will become even rarer than they already are," he said with a sigh. "I think we can convince them to come see this remarkable find after we’ve had our council. I, at least, will bring Legolas and his sisters and anyone else who is curious. What say you, good Master Gorlas? Will you be willing to make the necessary arrangements for a parcel of Elves who will descend upon your fair city clamoring for boats and guides to see this wreck?"

"For a modest fee, yes, of course," Gorlas replied with a sly smile and the two Elf-lords threw back their heads and laughed, the sound of it echoing over the waters. When they were calmer Thranduil and Gorlas spent the return trip hammering out the deal while Círdan sat and watched with detached amusement.

Every once in a while, though, his gaze wandered back to where the wreck lay, now lost from sight, and his expression became sad and pensive.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Belegaer: The Great Sea.

Evair: Avari, i.e. those Elves who refused to leave Cuiviénen.

Cwendai: Constructed plural of Cwenda: Elf, based on the fact that early Eldarin had plurals in ‘i’ rather than ‘r’. This is, according to Tolkien, the Naneldarin or East Danian form of the word which in Quenya would be Quendi and in Sindarin Penidh (sg. Penedh), although Edhil (sg. Edhel) is the more common form [see The Lost Road, HoME V, ‘The Etymologies’, sv KWEN(ED)-].

Adar: (Sindarin) Father.

Note: According to the Tale of Years, the Watchful Peace began in 2063 and ended in 2460. Three years later, the White Council was formed, though Tolkien does not say where it was held. For the purposes of this story, I have it held in Thranduil’s realm, since his kingdom was the one being threatened with Sauron returning in strength to Dol Guldur.





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