Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Círdan/Gil-galad; Ëarendil/Elwing; hints of Gil-galad/Elrond in later chapters
Summary: Sack of the Havens of Sirion; kidnap of Elrond and Elros.
"I sat upon the margin of the deep voiced echoing sea
Whose roaring foaming music crashed in endless cadency
And torn in towers and pinnacles and caverned in great vaults:
And its arches shook with thunder and its feet were piled with shapes
Riven in old sea-warfare from the crags and sable capes
By ancient battailous tempest and primeval mighty tide."
from "The Horns of Ylmir"
The night was clear and silent but for the breaking of the waves when Ereinion stirred from dreams. For the fifth time in five nights together, Círdan was gone from the bed they'd been sharing. For four nights Ereinion had done nothing when, waking from reverie in the comforting darkness, he'd felt the cold sheets beside him. Now he lay back, staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, his mind straying to thoughts he'd rather avoid.
Círdan was, to a large extent, still a mystery to him - a thought that made him sad after all the years he had spent so desperately in love with the older Elf. What had all that passion, all that devotion, won him in the end? The same elusive smile, the touch he knew that another enjoyed as well as he did, the one he wanted for his own a silvery wave, disappearing through his hands even as he clutched at it. The only progress he'd made towards accepting the situation was that he could, at least at an intellectual level, tell himself that he and Círdan were not meant to be together in the way that most Elves were partnered.
It would have been difficult enough, just given the fact that the one he loved was male instead of female, but even that might have been accommodated somehow, were the Shipwright truly free to bind himself to another. He wasn't though and even though Ereinion could now say those words to himself without choking on them - could accept them in his mind - body and soul still rejected them utterly.
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration before rising to pull on leggings and a tunic. He'd find his elusive lover and drag him back to bed if he had to. He could at least insist that when Círdan spent the night in his company, it was the entire night.
Under the starlight, he walked to the beach west of the harbor but found no one on the sand nor in the water. He had turned back towards the settlement and begun to walk along the quayside when he noticed a gleam of silver high up on the harborside watchtower. None of the remaining Falathrim, nor any of Doriath's survivors who still resided on Balas had hair that color, save one1. The king had found his quarry.
"Don't you have guards to do this kind of thing for you?" he said, a little brusquely, as he climbed off the ladder and onto the top of the tower.
Círdan, who had been watching the sea intently, turned and gave him a slow smile. "Well, I'm only a Lord, after all," he said, his voice teasing despite the coolness of Ereinion's manner. "I'm not the High King."
Ereinion wasn't amused. Crossing to the railing of the tower, he sat down next to Círdan, his expression bordering on mulish. "You know what I mean," he muttered. "Am I so poor a lover that you feel the need to leave in the middle of the night? Afraid I might wake up? Is that it? Am I too demanding of you?"
Another maddening smile. "You are demanding," Círdan said, turning his eyes to the harbor again, "but it's a quality I find endearing."
Beating back a wave of frustration at the languid response, Ereinion leaned over and tangled his fingers in Círdan's hair, pulling the Shipwright to him for a long, heated kiss. It began roughly, his tongue demanding entrance, but gradually softened until they were eating gently at each other's mouths. Ereinion pulled back slowly, his fingers relaxing around the silvery strands.
"We're not together every night," he said softly. "When we are... am I so wrong to want you there?"
Círdan almost laughed. "And knowing you, you'd want it to be every night."
Drawing back a bit, Ereinion did his best to look offended. "Are you suggesting that I have unnatural tastes?"
"Well," the silver-haired Elf mused, "it is said that once an Elf marries and has children that his attention turns to other things." His smiled widened, not quite a smirk, but close. "Perhaps if you found a maiden and sired a few sons..."
Ereinion's fingers tightened in his hair. "May I remind you, my Lord, that you have been alive far, far longer than I have and yet you remain unmarried and childless. I must therefore assume that you have yet to turn your attention to other things."
They sat for several moments, staring at each other, their smiles growing and each trying not to laugh. "I believe," Círdan said after a time, "that I've been found out." He let his gaze slide over Ereinion's features, settling at last on the king's lips. "Whatever am I to do about you?" he said softly.
"Tell me why you leave me in the middle of the night," Ereinion answered, unwilling to be distracted.
"I'm sorry," Círdan murmured, arms sliding around his knees, head tilted to study Ereinion's face. "Perhaps it sounds foolish but... there are times when I miss the starlight." He lifted his head for a moment then rested his chin on his knees and looked back at the silvery sea. "It reminds me, you see. Of simpler times..."
For a long time, Ereinion simply watched his lover's face, not speaking or touching, just watching. When the words came, he tried to bite them back, but couldn't. "Before my people returned to Middle-Earth, you mean?"
"Ereinion," Círdan chided softly, "you don't understand. I'm not one of those who condemn all the Noldor for the acts of a few. It's true that before the people of Finwë returned life here was simpler, but I would not trade that life for the companionship I had with Fingon, or Finrod... or you, most of all."
He broke off for a moment and turned his gaze to the stars, clear and fiery overhead. "Innocence is something to remember, to look back on with wonder. But it's not something to return to. We can none of us do that."
"No," Ereinion murmured, watching him as if from far away. "No we can't." But oh... what I would give to be able to.
They had sat, there in the watchtower, until the sky along the eastern shore grew pale and then fiery red. Below them the first stirrings of life in the settlement began, and Ereinion had gotten to his feet, stretching extravagantly, when Círdan sat up suddenly, peering out at the sea beyond the harbor.
"Ereinion?" he said. "Do you see that? Out beyond the last dock? Is that -"
"A messenger gull," the king muttered, his own eyes straining to identify the fast moving shape. "From the Havens..."
Círdan stood, his silver brows furrowed slightly. He and Tuor had set up the system of trained birds to ferry messages between Balar and the Havens of Sirion when the refugees from Gondolin had first come southward. Since the Havens had become well established, though, the birds were usually used only in emergencies.
As the white and gray gull approached, Círdan leaned over the railing of the tower and held out an arm. The obviously exhausted bird fluttered down roughly and landed on it, pausing for only a moment before holding out its leg. A small piece of parchment was curled tightly around it.
Quickly untying the message, Círdan placed the bird in the small open cote that stood on the east side of the tower, then unfurled the parchment and read. Ereinion watched the color drain from his lover's face.
"What -" he began, but Círdan interrupted him.
"The sons of Fëanor have sent word to the Havens," he whispered, crumpling the slip of parchment in his fist. "They are demanding the Silmaril."
Ereinion didn't have to be told to head down the ladder towards the ships.
One hundred and twenty five miles2 from the harbor on Balar to the Havens, and every inch of it seemed to drag on endlessly. They had taken seven of their largest ships, twenty warriors in each, and a smaller, lightweight vessel to carry Ereinion, Círdan, and a small armed contingent. There was no way to know what size force they might be up against - no way to gauge the number of troops the Fëanorians might have brought with them, had they come to the Havens at all. They could only hope that, had a struggle ensued, the folk of the Havens could hold their own until the mariners of Balar arrived.
Círdan was at the helm, ten of his strongest warriors at the oars, and the wind was blessedly in their favor, blowing strong out of the south. Even so, to Ereinion, sitting in the prow of the ship and staring at what seemed an endless expanse of water, they seemed to crawl at a snail's pace.
Images from his childhood, long ago in Hithlum, flooded his mind. He could remember sitting near the fire after the evening meal and hearing his grandfather's bitter words against Fëanor, his half-brother, who had abandoned Fingolfin and his people to the punishing ice of the Helcaraxë.
"And his sons no better than their father," he had said, and Ereinion had looked up at his father, only to see anguish in Fingon's eyes. His father had risked his own life to save Fëanor's eldest from torment and certain death, hoping to heal the rift between the two Houses. It had worked, on the whole, but Fingolfin never quite got over the humiliation of that hideous crossing, or the betrayal that had made it necessary.
As Ereinion stared out at the horizon, straining for some hazy view of coastline, he wondered if Maedhros was already in the Havens. For surely, it would have to be Maedhros leading the Fëanorians. Maglor followed his elder brother, and the three most temperamental of the seven had been slain in the attack on Doriath. The youngest he knew less about, but they no doubt heeded their eldest brother in the affair of their father's creations3.
No, it had to be Maedhros, and now Ereinion would have to face him - possibly fight him - his father's dearest friend. Will we never be free of those cursed jewels? he found himself thinking. Will they take us all down with them for the sake of that abominable oath?
Thirty miles from shore, Círdan, taking his turn in the prow, sighted a ship, beating its way out from the Havens against the southerly wind. When they had pulled abroadsides her captain, a slender Dorathian Elf, had dire news.
"Please, sire - my Lord," he said, breathlessly to Ereinion and Círdan, "the Havens are in peril! The sons of Fëanor came to us late last night, asking for the jewel my Lady bears. They would not be turned away empty handed, and the two youngest - ah, their pride could not bear it, though their elder brothers cautioned patience. They slew Lord Eärendil's counselors, and then went after the Lady Elwing herself. She ran from them, and bade me come to you as fast as possible, but the wind has been against me for hours. Please help us! There is madness in their eyes..."
"Bring your ship about," Círdan told him, "and follow us as quickly as you can. We have seven ships astern and troops enough to fight, if only we are in time."
No further time was wasted on words. The ship from Balar was soon underway again, easily pulling ahead of the vessel from the Havens by dint of a larger sail and more oars. Just over an hour had passed when they gained the harbor, but what a horrible sight met their eyes. The bodies of the dead and wounded lay about the quay, some with women huddled over them, weeping. Several of the nearest buildings – the armories, and several storehouses - were burning, and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air, mingling with the quiet sobs of the newly grieved.
Ereinion was the first out of the ship, his sword drawn, leather boots pounding along the wooden pier. Along the pathway to the Great Hall, near where Elwing and her sons resided, the party from Balar come upon a pair of Elven women fleeing towards the harbor. There faces were ashen gray, the eyes red from crying.
"Sire?" one of them said, as if in a dream, reaching vaguely toward Ereinion. "Is it you?"
The king reached for her hands to steady her, but she pulled away, pressing her palms to her cheeks, the tears streaming down her face anyway. "Could you not have come one hour sooner?" she said, her voice rising out of control.
"My lady -" he began, staring at her, his face a mask of agony, somehow knowing what she had not yet told them.
"What has happened?" Círdan said sharply, stepping forward. "Where are the Lady Elwing and her children?"
"Gone," said the second woman, speaking for the first time. Her voice was low and harsh from crying. "The little ones taken away by those fiends, but not before seeing their mother cast herself into the sea, still holding the Silmaril." She broke off, unable to say more and turned away from them, beginning to cry again in earnest.
"Just one hour," the first woman said, clutching at Ereinion's arm, her eyes at once hopeless and accusing. "One hour and they would have all been saved."
Ereinion felt a wave of sickness pass through him. The woman's eyes were hot stones upon him, boring into him relentlessly, pressing his failure down upon him like a deadly weight. "We'll find the children, my lady," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "I swear to you we will find them."
"But who will find their mother?" she replied, turning away from him slowly, like a woman in a dream. "Who will find her at the bottom of the sea?"
(1) Silver colored hair seemed to be a characteristic of the Teleri, and even among them it was rare. It appeared almost exclusively in those related to Elwë's line, as Thingol himself had it, as well as Celeborn and Círdan (back).
(2) From The Atlas of Middle-Earth, by Karen Wynn Fonstad (back)
(3) I am using Silmarillion canon here, not HoME. In this story, Amrod and Amras both survived the burning of the ships at Losgar, and both came to the Sack of the Havens at Sirion (back).
When Círdan's mariners arrived in the harbor they found no one to fight, and a crowd of Elves gazing at their settlement in shock. To a one, their faces were pale, their eyes dazed, staring at the fires consuming the last of their storehouses, and the dead who lay along the earthen paths.
Ereinion had taken a handful of troops and headed for Ëarendil's house, hoping against hope to find someone, anyone, of the ruling Lord's family left.
Círdan had run back to the harbor to do what he could for the wounded there while awaiting his ships. When they docked, he directed the warriors to fan out through the settlement and into the marshlands beyond, reckoning that if the sons of Fëanor had left but an hour previously they might still be found. When he was satisfied that the hunt for the Haven's attackers was well underway, he began loading the most grievously injured into the ships, for transport to Balar.
Ereinion, arriving at the Great Hall, found the most grisly scene. Most of the fighting had taken place there, and it was obvious that the folk of the Havens had fought off the Fëanorians desperately before being overcome. He and his soldiers were forced to walk through the Hall slowly, stepping over and around the bodies of the dead, stopping now and then to soothe one of the few still alive, though it was obvious to the king that all of their wounds were fatal.
In the middle of the room, within a few feet of each other, he found the bodies of two Elves he was unfamiliar with. They were of identical build and height, and their bright, coppery red hair flowed down their backs like fire. Kneeling down, he turned them over to lie on their backs.
"Who are they, my Lord?" the Falathrim soldier behind him asked quietly. "They aren't from the Havens, are they?"
"No," Ereinion murmured in reply, "they're Fëanor's twins, Amrod and Amros."
The Elf behind him swore softly. "It's a good thing they're dead," he said bitterly. "It saves me the trouble of dirtying my sword with their filthy blood."
Ereinion stood and turned to face the soldier, who drew back a bit from the suddenly tall and imposing king. "It was just such misguided passion and rash words that caused this horror," he said, voice quiet but stern. "If there is anything we do not need it is more of the same." Then he turned and continued through the Hall to the doors on the far side.
There was more evidence of the battle in the corridor and on the stairs that led to Ëarendil's family quarters. The small party from Balar moved swiftly upwards, though, and Ereinion gave the order for a complete search of the rooms. He himself took the largest bedchamber, a spacious room with a small wooden balcony, southward facing, that stood above the sea. Looking down from that height, Ereinion could see the waters of the bay, a deep, calm blue.
"It's no use looking for her, my Lord," a faint voice came from behind the king.
Ereinion turned, unsheathing his sword and holding it out. It's deadly tip was only inches from a pale Elven face. Light brown hair was matted with blood that flowed from a large wound on the side of his head. The livery he wore marked him as a Doriathin, possibly, Ereinion thought, a retainer who had come from the Guarded Realm with the Lady Elwing on her flight south. His eyes were unfocused, and he struggled to keep himself standing as he leaned against the back wall of the balcony.
The king moved to his side, putting an arm around his waist and helping him to slide down the wall, where he sat with his head resting gingerly against the sun-warmed wood. "What is your name, good sir?" Ereinion asked gently.
"Taurendil, my Lord," he said. "She's gone, you see..."
Ereinion took his hand. "Tell me, Taurendil - what happened here?"
"My Lady..." he began. "She talked with Lord Maedhros long into the night. He tried to convince her that his claim to the jewel should be honored..."
"Were any other of the brothers here?" Ereinion asked, feeling the press of the dying Elf's weight against him.
"Lord Maglor," he whispered. "He said little. I don't think either of them wanted..." Taurendil's eyes closed and he shook his head. Ereinion, struggling to hide a growing sense of urgency and impatience, forced himself to simply listen.
"It was dawn and all were weary - weary of the demand, weary of the refusal... Maglor it was who stood and urged his brother to leave. But just as he did, we heard a noise of swords and shouting in the Great Hall. A steward came in - bleeding - saying the youngest brothers and their troops had attacked the guards. Of course... of course we drew swords on the older two, thinking to be ready before they did the same..."
Blood was pouring from the wound, seeping down the side of the pale face and pooling on Taurendil's delicately stitched tunic, a bright, garish red against the soft blue fabric. Ereinion tried to wipe some of it out of the Elf's eyes, murmuring, "Hold on... hold on."
"Perhaps we should not have done so," Taurendil continued. "The gesture seemed to madden them, especially Lord Maedhros. They... they attacked us - they attacked everyone who was surrounding the Lady Elwing. We tried... so hard to keep her safe. And then they started crying..."
"They?" Ereinion asked. "Do you mean the twins? Were they nearby?"
"In the small chamber behind this one. The Fëanorians didn't know they were there... But the sound of the fighting must have frightened them. Came to the doorway... wanted their mother, poor little ones..."
His eyes were closing slowly, the color drained completely from his face. One of Ereinion's soldiers arrived on the balcony, somewhat breathless, to inform the king that the other rooms had been searched and that nothing was found. He looked down at the dying Elf in the king's arms.
"Should I... should I bring some water, my Lord?" he murmured, though it was obvious to both he and Ereinion that it would do no good.
"Yes," the king said, glad for a reason to send him away, and when he'd gone in search of it Ereinion looked back down at Taurendil. "What happened to the children?" he said softly. "To your Lady?"
"Lord Maedhros came at her. He and his soldiers had killed the other guardsmen, and dealt me a death blow. I tried to get up... to come at him from behind, but I couldn't. He had his sword drawn and she, my Lady, she was between him and this balcony..."
He opened his eyes again, staring up at the bright sky, and gave out a sob. "I could see her thinking about it. She had that jewel clutched tight in her hand -" He tried to bring his hand up to make a fist, but it dropped to the ground before he could. "She knew just what she was doing. He stepped forward and she... she turned and made a leap onto the railing. Didn't turn to look back at all. One moment she was there and the next... she was like a hunted bird falling down to the sea. And her little ones there and seeing her go..."
It was clear he couldn't say more about it. Tears were mingling with the thick streams of blood running down his face. Ereinion leaned back and let Taurendil's head slide onto his lap. "And the children?" he asked. "Were they killed?"
"Taken," came the breathy reply. "One by Lord Maedhros... one by Lord Maglor... and I could only lie in my own blood and watch them go..." Then his face, that had been contorted by crying, relaxed. Through the blood and his own tears, he looked again a noble Elf, the guardian of a noble family. "Crying for their mother," he whispered to Ereinion. "Those little voices... so hopeful and pleading..."
And Taurendil, guardian of the House of Dior, spoke no more.
"The water, my Lord," said a voice at Ereinion's elbow. Then there was a pause. "Is he...?"
"Yes," the king said softly. "A brave and loyal man... his people should be proud of him." He looked up at the soldier. "We must find those children."
They didn't find the children, though. The soldiers of Balar searched for weeks and found only cold trails and a few broken camps. It was Ereinion who, after the searchers had been at it for several months, told Círdan to call them back to the island. The sons of Fëanor were hunters, skilled in woodcraft, and knew well how to cover their tracks and disappear into the wild. They had done just that, and taken the children of Ëarendil and Elwing with them.
Those who had survived the attack were taken to Balar to dwell among Círdan and Ereinion's people. The dead of the Havens were buried, the fires put out, and the Elven settlement that had been the home of the survivors from Doriath and Gondolin was slowly reclaimed by the land.
The folk of the Havens, now living on Balar, waited and hoped for their Lord, Ëarendil, to come home from the sea, but to their great sorrow he never did. After two years had passed without word from him, many assumed him dead, and took Ereinion for their lord and king.
One evening, some five years after the attack, it happened that Círdan and Ereinion walked the beach west of the main harbor. They were discussing plans to establish two additional settlements further up the coast. They were needed desperately, for not only had the Falathrim grown again in numbers, but every day it seemed more boats arrived from Beleriand, bringing Elves who had been scattered over the lands and had now been driven south by Morgoth's forces. The main settlement was extremely crowded and some Elves had already taken to building houses out away from it. Among the new arrivals had been Ereinion's kinswoman, Galadriel and her husband Celeborn of Doriath, a distant relation of Círdan's.
"How are you getting on with the Lady Galadriel?" Círdan asked the king, looking over at him from the corner of his eye.
Ereinion's brows drew together, the faintest of scowls on his face. "She is... quite an amazing woman. Intelligent. Very strong... in her beliefs..."
"Mmm, yes," Círdan murmured, still observing Ereinion with a hidden smile. "An interesting contrast to her husband, who seems all ease and consideration."
"You've noticed that as well?" Ereinion asked, turning to him with a look of near-relief. "Well then, at least it's not just my pride asserting itself."
The Shipwright laughed. "Oh, I'm sure that has something to do with it, but not completely. No, she knows her own mind, the Golden Lady does. I would not want to be her enemy."
"No..." Ereinion murmured, and Círdan looked over at him in curiosity. He said no more, though, and they walked in silence for a time, enjoying the blue of the twilight sky.
Then, suddenly, Ereinion stopped. Círdan turned to see him staring up at the western sky.
"Ereinion?"
"Do you...?" The king's hand went up, as if to touch something that hung in the air above him. "Do you see it, Círdan?"
Following his gaze, Círdan turned and there, in still blue air above the sea, was a star - a new star, that neither Elf had ever seen before. To say it was a mere star, though, was to do it great injustice, for it contained the brightest, most luminous light of any in the sky. It glowed with a silver so profound that they found themselves smiling at it - laughing even - as they stared up at it in wonder.
At last, Ereinion found his voice again. "What is it?" he whispered?
Círdan did not answer at once, but stood quietly, regarding the new light of the heavens, his arms folded in front of him, his long hair gleaming in it's brilliance. "It's a sign," he said at last. "Perhaps we are not forsaken after all."
It was later that year, as the folk of Balar finished the first of their new settlements, that the air one foggy morning was shaken with the sound of trumpets. Far, far away them seemed, but clear as Sirion's waters in the Springtime, and the whole of that Elven folk looked towards the north and began to whisper among themselves that perhaps - that it just might be - the Lords of the West had taken pity on the Elves and Men of Middle-Earth, and that the time of their deliverance from Morgoth could be at hand.
Círdan, Ereinion, and their captains held counsel at once, conferring on what the best course of action would be. Círdan was hesitant to leave his people with only light defense, but Ereinion was adamant that the Sindar and the Noldor be represented in what would no doubt be a great battle against Morgoth and in the end, with assurances of a strong regiment to guard the island, the two of them prepared for war.
It took several months to ready themselves and their troops, for both ships and armor were in short supply. Their plan was to sail to Arvernien and then up the river Sirion to the Falls, west of where Nargothrond had stood. From there they would march northward towards the enemy.
Círdan, along with his Falathrim and the mariners of the Havens, worked constantly in the shipyard, building new vessels and preparing the existing ones for the rigors of river travel. The surviving smiths of Doriath and Gondolin forged weapons and mail for the soldiers, and the wives and daughters of every mariner made sails while the other womenfolk sewed clothing and blankets. Even the children were put to work, harvesting food for the army's provisions.
When the fleet was fully outfitted, the folk of Balar held a great feast to send off their warriors. By that time messengers from the north had reached them, and they knew of the coming of the Vanyar and the Noldor from Valinor. Each and every Elf on the island knew the utter gravity of the moment. This would be the decisive battle – the powers of the West against the enemy of the North - and the fate of Middle-Earth hung in the balance. Should the North prevail, their warriors would not be coming home.
Before the feast began, Círdan took Ereinion aside and led him to his rooms. "There is something I've had made for you," he said cryptically, "something to take into battle," and he would say no more until they were behind closed doors. Stepping into the dimly lit antechamber, Ereinion could see something tall in the center of the room. He could only see it's outline, but it gleamed softly in the faint light of the stars that came through Círdan's open window.
The Shipwright moved to his map table and lit a lamp, bringing the thing into sight, and Ereinion gasped. It was a suit of armor, shining like the silver fire of the West's new star. A simple pattern had been etched into the metal, nothing ornate, the better to keep the surface reflective. A brilliantly polished silver shield hung from one of the gauntlets, the metal reflecting his own face back at him as the king moved towards it. In the center was a device of twelve silver stars against a field of luminous blue1 The same color was in the cape that hung down the back of the suit, as well as the gleaming sash around the waist.
Ereinion was silent for some time, staring at the armor in wonder. Then, turning to Círdan, he said softly, "Why have you done this for me? I am not one of the Hosts of the West. Do you wish me to outshine them?"
The Shipwright smiled. "The light that shines from you, Ereinion, is different from that which comes from Valinor. It doesn't come from seeing the Blessed realm and partaking of it's sustenance. It comes from within your own fëa, and this token of mine holds but a fraction of it's radiance."
It seemed then to Ereinion that the years he'd spent with Círdan hung before his eyes, dazzling him as much as the metal of the armor. All of the care that the Shipwright had poured into his fostering had come down to this time, this war, and he felt at that moment, more than he ever had, the strength that came from Círdan's unwavering belief in him. Whatever else passed between them, he knew now that he would always have that belief, warm and eternal, to sustain him through anything he was called upon to do.
Eventually, they joined their people for the feast, and in the morning they sailed for Beleriand and the perils of the North.
(1) This device can be seen in the book, J.R.R. Tolkien, Artist and Illustrator (1995) by Wayne G. Hammond and Christina Scull (back).
Note: This chapter looks the way it does because of my puzzlement about whether Ereinion and Círdan fought in the War of Wrath. Many people believe that Tolkien's reference in The Silmarillion - that none of the Elves of Beleriand saw the landing of the Host of Valinor - means that the Beleriandic Elves did not fight in the War at all. This seemed most out of character to me (especially for Ereinion) and felt all the more wrong when I read that the army of Valinor freed the Men of Hithlum and that they fought alongside the Elves and Maiar against Morgoth. I have a very hard time believing that Ereinion would have been content to sit the whole event out on Balar (though I can imagine Círdan doing so in a defensive role for his people.)
So, I've created a way for the folk of Balar to join the War of Wrath, and I've also, for the sake of what seems to be a very strange piece of canon, included an obstacle to their participation. I do not in anyway assume the events in this chapter to be canon, although I do believe them to be canon-compatible.
Punctuation: All normally punctuated dialogue is assumed to be in Sindarin. The use of brackets [...] around dialogue denotes that it is in Quenyan.
No one had seen the Host of the West come to Beleriand. There had been the clarion call of trumpets - a call that the Elven rulers of Balar had answered with a strong contingent of warriors – but after that the silence had reigned down again. As Círdan and Ereinion landed at the deserted harborage that had once been the Havens of Sirion, the quiet of the landscape had made them uneasy. It was as if the whole of Beleriand was tensed and waiting for some terrible event, for good or evil no one could say.
As they headed up the river, though, they began to hear it, a low, steady thrumming that coursed through the earth and the water like an echoing footstep on wooden planks. Far away it sounded, and yet the impact of it, on their ears and their skin, was as intimate as if they were surrounded by giants.
"What is it, sire?" an Elven warrior from Gondolin asked Ereinion.
He shook his head, peering ahead as if his eyes could penetrate the line of trees and brush that bordered the river and see across two hundred miles to where the noise began. "Lord Círdan believes - and I do, too - that the Lords of the West have come to our aid. If that is them, then they have brought an army such as Middle-Earth has never seen before."
The steady throb, coupled with the deserted countryside through which they passed, gave the whole journey a feel of unreality. Ereinion watched off the starboard bow of the ship and thought to himself, There were once Elves who lived by these shores... thousands of them once, living peacefully for ages of time. All gone away now... some to Mandos, some to Angband, and the remnant to Balar. All our kindreds, so horribly diminished...
The thought of all those missing Elves strengthened his resolve. Their absence cried out to him for action, for revenge, to not let the Eldar of Beleriand disappear while he reigned as High King. So he stared hard at the houseless landscape, and readied his mind for battle.
It came much sooner than any of them had expected.
As they passed through Nan Tathren, the two lookouts on the king's ship cried down that a large band of Orcs was making for the river bank on the port side. Ereinion gave the order for the archers to prepare, and then called down to the rowers to increase their speed as much as possible. The message was passed to the other ships in the fleet and soon the air was tense with anticipation, the Elven archers with arrows trained on the bushy growth off the port side of the ship, waiting for the enemy.
Círdan's ship pulled close along side Ereinion's and the Shipwright called to his former pupil for a brief counsel. With a graceful leap, Círdan jumped the narrow gap between the boats and pulled himself up to the prow, where the king waited.
"Just a thought," he said, a bit breathlessly. "If we outrow this contingent but they see us, some of them might be intelligent enough to fathom that Balar is less protected than it was. I don't like the idea of letting a large group of them go off southward, which is what I fear they will do."
"What are you suggesting?" Ereinion asked doubtfully.
"I think we should engage them fully," Círdan said. "If we can get about half a mile upriver, there are a few good landings that are sheltered from the river road. We can put in there two boats at a time, and be waiting for them when they gain the riverbank. Fighting next to the water will put us at a great advantage."
The king took only a moment to consider and then, with a quick nod hurried off to give the orders to his crew. Círdan leapt back to his own vessel, and the fleet of Balar prepared to make a hurried landing.
The first battle was challenging, and they lost several of the company, but the second battle they encountered, further north, was far easier, and by the time they drew level with the Falls of Sirion they found bands of Orcs moving rapidly northward, away from them.
They had left the boats with a small contingent who would sail them back to Balar, and the main company was now camped for the night some five miles west of the river. Most of the troops had already gone to rest when Ereinion emerged from the woods, having walked the perimeter of the camp, checking for signs of danger. Círdan was tending the small fire.
"Well," the Shipwright said, looking over at the king as he sat down beside him, "any signs of the enemy nearby?"
"Not a one," Ereinion sighed, stretching his legs. "You realize, of course, why it's become so ridiculously easy to pass through these woods?"
"I have my own ideas," Círdan said, turning to look at the fire again, "but I am interested to hear yours."
Ereinion turned to face the silver-haired Elf, stretched out on his side, propped on one elbow, his feet near the warmth of the fire. "All right, how about this: they're all going north, not running away but being summoned. They're being summoned to aid Morgoth in his time of greatest need. That need is obviously desperate enough that they aren't even stopping to engage with us."
Círdan smiled gently, never shifting his gaze from the flames. "Keep talking like that, Ereinion, and I might actually believe you are ready to command this army without any help from me."
Doubt crossed briefly over the king's face, then vanished as confidence reasserted itself. "You wouldn't leave," he said, in mock sternness. "And think of it - this is a chance to rid Beleriand of them once and for all."
"Are you proposing that we abandon the march north and place ourselves in a position to meet the rest of the Orcs coming from the south?" Círdan asked.
"Only for a time," Ereinion answered. "We stop the greatest number of them from going to their master's aid, and when their numbers begin to dwindle we carry on northwards."
"A fairly good defensive plan," the Shipwright mused, "though it does run the risk of our missing the northern battle and thus not aiding our folk there."
"This war will not be over in a matter of weeks or even months, I fear," Ereinion said, leaning forward to make his point. "If what we heard that night on Balar was the call of Valinor, then this will be a war greater than any other the Eldar have seen. Morgoth will not go quickly or quietly."
"Then let us do as you say," Círdan agreed. "We shall fight where we stand and deprive him of as many of his loyal soldiers as possible."
Ereinion looked over at his lover and friend. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "we could even move westward, and free the Falas from their infestation."
Almost as soon as he'd said it, he wished the words back again. Círdan was silent for a very long time, staring into the flames, his eyes reflecting them as if he could see again the burning of his cities, the dearest places to him in all of Middle-Earth. "Perhaps," he whispered at last, "but I will not go with you. I cannot look on that place again. I need to remember it the way it was, not as it is now."
Reaching a hand to cover Círdan's own, the king gave it a squeeze. "As you wish," he murmured, and they both sat back to watch the fire.
The war lasted longer than any had imagined it could. The waves of Orcs coming up from the southwest took years to defeat and the progress of the small army of Balar was slow in their march northwards. Always ahead of them, though, they could hear the faint sounds of what seemed to be a huge army, sounds that grew ever louder as they made their way across the River Teiglin, and towards the Forest of Brethil.
It was there, coming through the trees, that they at last beheld the Army of the West, or at least a portion of it, for the camp ranged over Dimbar and the old Forest of Neldoreth as far as they could see. The tents and banners were white as snow, and they gleamed in the sunlight like star fire. "Truly," Círdan murmured to Ereinion, "the Powers have sent us a mighty host. Morgoth will surely meet his end now."
As they approached the great camp along a forest road, they were stopped by five golden-haired Elves who blocked the way with golden bows raised, each arrow point a deadly silver flower petal, the sharp tips shining in the gloom of the forest. Ereinion held up a hand and his troops came to a quiet halt. He glanced at Círdan, who gave him a small nod, and then he stepped up to where the guards waited.
They were breathtaking in their beauty, all of them looking as if they'd just come of age, and a soft light seemed to bathe them all, radiating from blue eyes, gleaming off of their long hair. ["Stand forth, traveler, and tell us what business you have here1,"] the middle Elf of the five said, and his voice seemed made of clear water flowing through a stream, the language utterly different from the Sindarin Ereinion had become use to speaking.
It took only a moment for the king to search his memory for the Quenyan words. ["I am Ereinion, son of Fingon of the House of Fingolfin. I am the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand, and I come with Círdan, the Sindarin Lord of Balar, and our people, to join the battle against Morgoth Bauglir."]
It seemed to Ereinion that a very faint look of distaste crossed the beautiful faces of the guards at that moment. There was a moment of silence and then the middle guard spoke again. ["The Army of Valinor commends you on your bravery,"] he said with a hint of patronage, ["and we are sure in the knowledge that this diminutive assembly you bring before us would prove capable fighters were you put to the test. However, at present we have no need of your kindly offered services. It would seem to me that past history and propriety suggest that the best course of action for you and your companions is to return to your homes and await the call of our leader, Ëonwë, Herald of Manwë, who will summon you and all your people with instructions at the conclusion of the hostilities."]
Ereinion stared at the man for several moments before saying anything. Then, struggling to control his anger, he stood a little straighter and called on every ounce of Quenyan he could remember to address the Vanyarin guard. "Your counsel, my Lord -?" and here he stopped a moment, a questioning look on his face.
["Ingwelindo,"] the Elf replied, ["of the House of Ingwë,"] he added importantly, stressing slightly his famous relation's name.
["Lord Ingwelindo,"] Ereinion continued, arranging his face to look suitably impressed, ["your counsel is most appreciated, and were I and my companions of lesser rank and ability we might indeed heed it at once, however -" Here he looked back at Círdan, who stepped up gracefully beside him and smiled serenely. "Our positions of leadership over the Elves who inhabit Middle-Earth require, nay, demand our involvement in this conflict, and our reputations would be grievously injured among our kindreds were we to flee from such important battles."]
The five guards did not appear to take Ereinion's reply at all well. Several of them frowned at him, and the one to Ingwelindo's left leaned over an whispered something in the chieftain of the guard's ear.
["Let me be plainer,"] Ingwelindo said in a slower voice, though he showed no outward sign of irritation. ["The Powers have sent us to capture the Dark Lord Melkor, and to destroy his dwellings on the Hither Shores. We have no need of your help, though we thank you for it and acknowledge the bravery you show in offering it to us. If it is because of your kindreds' honor that you insist on fighting, be assured that the Noldor are well-represented among our forces. Finarfin himself, son of Finwë, leads the Noldor of Tirion in these lands. His camp lies further to the east. You need not trouble yourselves that the Noldor are not doing their part."]
He gave a slight smile, a small inclination of his head, and then looked at Círdan as if he'd just remembered that he was there. ["And you can inform your Sindarin companion,"] Ingwelindo told Ereinion, ["that the Teleri, though not involved in the fighting, contributed ships and sailors for the journey from Aman."]
["I appreciate that information,"] Círdan murmured, who looked immensely pleased at that moment that he had learned Quenyan from Fingon and Fingolfin. ["However, it does not change my intention to fight on behalf of my folk here in Middle-Earth."]
The Vanyarin Elf raised an eyebrow, looking at the Shipwright in mild surprise. ["Forgive me. I was not aware that any of the Moriquendi had knowledge of the tongues of the Blessed Lands."]
Ereinion's temper, which at this point was being strained to the breaking point, was not helped at all by the way in which Ingwelindo uttered the term "Moriquendi." He was able, however, to master himself enough to avoid launching into a discussion of why Círdan could never be considered a dark Elf. Instead he smiled at the guard again and asked, ["Will you tell us the name of your Lord, and then tell him that we desire a counsel with him?"]
Ingwelindo narrowed his gaze at Ereinion. ["Our Lord is Ingwiel, son of Ingwë2, but I do not think -"]
["If you would take our message to him please,"] the king repeated, still smiling.
The matter was discussed in hushed tones among the five guards for several moments, and then Ingwelindo stepped forward. ["I will take him the message,"] he said reluctantly. ["You will wait here."] He held out graceful hands in a gesture that implied that they were not to take another step nearer the camp. Then, nodding his head ever so slightly, he turned away and left the four remaining guards standing were they had been the whole time, gazing on Ereinion's troops with serene, impassive faces.
"They are wondrously beautiful," Círdan commented as he and Ereinion waited for Ingwelindo's return. Their soldiers were refreshing themselves at a nearby spring, and for the moment the two leaders had the clearing they stood in quite to themselves. The Vanyarin guards looked on from their positions ahead on the road.
"I suppose," Ereinion replied curtly. "Though they know it too well, if you ask me." He glared at the guards and took a seat on the soft grass, Círdan sliding down to sit next to him. "Did you hear they way he called you `Moriquendi' as if it meant some sort of intelligent beast?"
"I've heard it said that way before," Círdan said calmly. "Not all the Noldor were as respectful as your grandfathers when they came across the sea. Don't let it trouble you - it certainly doesn't trouble me."
"They do trouble me," the king said stubbornly. "We have more at stake than they do. What right have they to tell us this isn't our fight? It's an outrage."
"Apparently," Círdan murmured, looking over at the guards, "they believe they and they alone were called to rid Middle-Earth of Morgoth's evil." He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful, and then continued. "I can only guess that Ëarendil must have reached the shores of Aman, and pleaded the case of Middle-Earth on behalf of both Elves and Men. If that were so, would it be so strange for these Elves of Valinor to believe us unable to fight ourselves?"
"Well then, we'll have to show them we can," Ereinion growled in a low voice. "I'll not have any Elf, even these highborn ones, taking me and mine for cowards or weaklings."
The Shipwright looked over at him, admiring the strong profile, the hair like dark silk flowing down his back. "Don't fear, Ereinion," he said softly. "You will have your chance in the war, even if these are not the woods you fight in."
Ereinion looked over at him, about the reply, when a voice called out. ["Lord Ereinion?"]
It was Ingwelindo, returned from his errand to Ingwiel. Ereinion got to his feet muttering under his breath, "Lord Ereinion? That's King Ereinion to you..."
Ingwelindo seemed to have a subtlety pleased expression on his face as Ereinion and Círdan approached. ["I have spoken with my Lord,"] he said, eyes fixed on them, ["and he sends you greetings and most gracious thanks for your offer of troops and arms. However, he believes it to be in your best interest to return to your homes in the south, where you will be safe until our engagement here is concluded. He bids me remind you that this is a matter for the Host of the West, and that you will be the most useful to him if he knows that you are out of harm's way."]
Ereinion found himself shaking. ["What -"] he managed to get out through gritted teeth, ["What is meant by this inexcusable -']
["Thank you for bringing us your Lord's counsel,"] Círdan said smoothly, laying a hand unobtrusively on Ereinion's arm. ["We will not trouble you any longer, but will turn east and so come to the river that will guide us home. We greatly appreciate the time you have spent with us."] He gave the guards a graceful bow and managed to pull Ereinion away with him without making it look too obvious that the king was having to be dragged.
The two leaders walked swiftly down the forest path, towards their troops who were mustering further along.
"What did you mean, thanking them?" Ereinion hissed. "I've never in my life been insulted to that degree. Turned away and sent home, like a faithful dog who's done a good trick? We cannot leave now! It would be a disgrace!"
"Yes, it would," Círdan agreed, "and that is why we head east."
"To the river?" Ereinion demanded. "May I remind you we have no boats there any longer?"
"More things lie to the east than just the river," Círdan continued calmly as they walked. "The camp of Finarfin, for one. The realm of the Fëanorians for another."
Ereinion stopped, taking Círdan`s arm and turning the Shipwright to face him. "Are you suggesting we join league with the Kinslayers?" he whispered fiercely. "Think of the soldiers who march with us. How many of them were from the Havens? How many will want to ally themselves with the murderers of their families and friends? Círdan, you've always been a voice of reason to me, but surely now you've strayed into madness."
"I don't suggest we join the Fëanorians, Ereinion," the older Elf said quietly. "I only mean to say that we will no doubt be able to travel much farther northward, and towards our enemy's camps, if we travel in lands occupied by the Noldor. If we encounter Fëanor's sons, we are under no obligation to join with their company - if they even have a company at all. But I cannot see them restricting our travel... and, Elbereth willing, we may even find the children of Ëarendil and Elwing among them."
Slowly, the king released his grip on Círdan's arm. He considered his friend's words for a long, long time, and then seemed to make a decision. "Very well," he finally said in a hoarse voice. "We will go east, and then north, and we will engage Morgoth's forces wherever we find them."
"I expected no less from you," Círdan said mildly, and with that they turned and walked to where their troops awaited orders.
(1) The Quenya used by the House of Ingwe was supposedly more formal than that of the other kindreds. Although these guards would no doubt realize that Gil-galad is not of their house, and would therefore speak the more general Quenyan with him, I'm going by the assumption that their speech would be more formal than most others from Aman (back).
(2) Ingwiel was a son of Ingwë in one of Tolkien's earlier editions of the War of Wrath. I've resurrected him here because I think it would be appropriate for one of Ingwë's sons to be leading the Vanyar into battle. (The other name sometimes given for Ingwë's son was Ingwion.) (back)
The End
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