The Fledgling years

by Soledad

Series: Prequel to “Innocence” – a young Lindir story.

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

Rating: G

Foreword

This story practically retells in a detailed version what Radagast told Elrond and Celebrían at the beginning of “Innocence”. Hints and bits have been given in other stories, so that my regular readers already pretty much know everything that there is to know about my version of Lindir. Nevertheless, I felt the necessity to write this prequel. Regardless of how long “Innocence” might finally become, it would be incomplete without telling the tale of Lindir’s childhood.

For new readers, I have to emphasize, that Lindir’s whole story and background are my doing. In LOTR, he is just a random elf who teases Bilbo about his poem sung in the chapter “Many Meetings”.

About the Istari: it is said in canon that:

“they first appeared in Middle-earth about the year of 1000 of the Third Age, but for long they went about in simple guise, as it were of Men already old in years but hale in body, travellers and wanderers, gaining knowledge of Middle-earth and all that dwelt therein, but revealing to none their powers and purposes. In that time Men saw them seldom and heeded them little. But as the shadow of Sauron began to grow and take shape again, they became more active, and sought ever to contest the growth of the Shadow, and to move Elves and Men to beware of their peril.”

(Unfinished Tales, Part Four, II. The Istari; p. 405.)

For the purposes of my story, “Innocence”, I assumed that while the Istari did not appear openly before Elves and Men ere the year 1000, they might have arrived a lot earlier (in this case in the first century of the Third Age) and wandered and worked unnoticed. Canon also states that they did not come over the Sea all at the same time. Saruman and Radagast came first, the Blue Wizards followed, and Gandalf arrived last, alone. It is not told how much time went by between their arrivals. It could have been days, months, years – or centuries. I chose the last option.

Also, I decided to make one of the Blue Wizards female. I know that it was probably not what Tolkien had in mind for them, but again, he also created the Valier who were not an inch less in majesty and power than their male counterparts. And he also created the Maia Arien, Mistress of the Sun. Why no female Istari, then?

In any case, people who have already forgotten more about Tolkien’s languages than I will ever be able to learn told me that “Alatar” could, theoretically, be as much a female name as a male one. Nonetheless, I chose to call the female wizard Alatariel while still in Valinor and will switch to Alatar as soon as she sets foot on Middle-earth, assuming that she would travel in male disguise.

Not that we’ll see her (or any of the others for that matter) too often in this tale. This is Aiwendil’s tale, the tale of his fostering of Lindir and his friendship with Wood-Elves and the forefathers of the Beornings, and it will end exactly where “Innocence” begins: with the arrival of Lindir in Imladris.

It is going to be a long tale, and the updates will probably be slow and far between. I still hope that some will find joy in reading it.

Soledad

Note: "Innocence is not posted to this site, as the rules wouldn't allow it. You can find it on FF.Net or in the Tolkien Fanfiction Archive.

The Fledgling years

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Foreword.

Author’s notes:

The Hall of Ilmarin follows the description given in “The Book of Lost Tales 1”. Some of Manwë and Varda’s discussion is paraphrased from the “Unfinished Tales”. Those lines are quoted, not stolen. Just to set things straight in advance.

Chapter 01: The Emissaries

A hundred years have gone by in the Outer Lands since Sauron had been defeated and lost his corporeal form. According to the tidings that Elves who still kept coming to the West had brought, Middle-earth had begun to recover from the wounds suffered during the long war between the Elves and Sauron and in that last, horrible battle upon Dagorlad, where the power of the Dark Lord had finally been broken. It seemed that the Outer Lands would find peace, at last.

And yet the heart of Manwë Súlimo, King of the Valar, was heavy with dark foreboding. For the spirit of Sauron, his very essence, which could not be destroyed by the hands of Elves or Men, had not returned to Valinor. Not that he would have been allowed to take on a new fana and dwell in the Blessed Realm as if nothing had happened. But it had been expected that he would flee from the Outer Lands, shapeless, a naked spirit, and eventually end up in the Void, where his dark Master had been imprisoned behind the Door of Night, ever since the War of Wrath.

Yet the spirit of Sauron had not returned from Middle-earth, which could only mean one thing: that he was still hiding somewhere in the Outer Lands, sleeping in some dark place, gathering his strength and preparing to return, as he had done at the beginning of the Second Age. For though the walls and towers and bulwarks of Barad-dûr had been torn down, its foundations were still untouched and strong and could not be destroyed by all the efforts of Elves and Men – and that meant that a great part of Sauron’s powers was still intact.

Long had Manwë Súlimo listened to his heart about this, seeking out the will and the counsel of Ilúvatar, which only he was able to know. And he finally turned for advice to his spouse, the Lady Varda, Queen of the Valar and maker of the stars.

“Elentári,” he said, “my white Lady, crowned with stars, I require the light of your wisdom in this matter. For Ilúvatar’s counsel is unclear and my insight is not enough to decide rightly. Yet my heart tells me that we have neglected our guardianship of the Outer Lands for too long, and if we tarry any longer, it might be too late to act.”

“That is true,” answered the Lady of the Stars, “yet we must not repeat our errors of old; least that we had attempted to guard and seclude the Eldar by our own might and glory fully revealed and to rule their wills by open display of power. That had gone terribly wrong once, and it would go wrong again. In that, Ulmo and Yavanna were right.”

“What, then, would you advise to do?” asked Manwë. “For we should make our move, and soon.

“We should,” agreed Varda, “ and thus let us call a council to Máhanaxar and choose emissaries from the circle of the Maiar.”

Rarely did anything surprise Manwë Súlimo anymore, but the suggestion of his Lady left him completely bewildered.

“The Maiar?” he repeated. “What difference would that make? We had sent Eönwë to lead our host during the War of Wrath, and it broke the very bone of the Outer Lands, so that half of them sank under the Sea.”

“I know,” replied Varda dryly. “I was the one who sang the lament over their loss with Nienna and Yavanna, or have you forgotten? But when we send our emissaries now, it must be different. They must be forbidden to reveal themselves in forms of majesty. They must go in shapes weak and humble, for only thus can they rouse the trust of Elves and Men. Their work must be to advise and persuade both people to good, and to seek and unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron, should he come again, would endeavour to dominate and corrupt.”

Manwë shook his head in concern. “I know not how we are supposed to do this, my Lady. We shall need emissaries whose spirit is strong enough to endure the hardships of a true incarnation; for they cannot wear a fana of illusion, staying who know how long in the Outer Lands. But if their bodies are to be real and not feigned, they will be subject to the fears and pains and weariness of earth. They will be able to feel hunger and thirst and to be slain, even though their spirits cannot die. It will be a hard labour, and it might take many long years – how are they supposed to endure a life not their own for unlimited time? Eönwë had only endured it for a few decades and yet he could barely hold his fana together upon his return. Still is he sitting in Námo’s halls, and there is no way to know when he will be able to return.”

“Eönwë is a warrior,” said Varda thoughtfully. “The ones we shall send have to be builders and planters. Let us send messages to our brethren now and ask them to send the ones of their people whom they see fit for such a mission to our council. When we have seen their choices, we might find the right ones easier.”

With that Manwë agreed, and thus the Eagles were sent out to Valmar of the many bells, the city of the Aratar midst of the plain of Valinor, with the messages that Varda had proposed. And the great birds flew swiftly to the many-storeyed home of Tulkas, with its court for fight lessons and tournaments; and to Oromë’s low halls, which were strewn with skins and the roof of which was supported by a tree; and to Aulë’s great court, which held some of each of the trees of earth.

And beyond Valmar they flew to the pastures of Yavanna and to Nienna’s lodgings, west of West on the borders of Aman; and to the Gardens of Lórien, although they needed not to bring tidings there, as the pale Estë saw in her dreams everything that happened in Valinor and beyond. Neither did they fly to the dark abodes of Námo and Vairë, for those two were not concerned with the future; only with the past and the present.

And while they were waiting for the answers, Manwë sat brooding on his high seat, listening to his heart and hoping to understand the will of Ilúvatar better. But Varda walked over to Ingwë’s halls, to talk to the High King of all Elves in Valinor about the matter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ingwë and his Queen, Erinti, were among the first Quendi whose eyes had opened to the newborn stars at the dark waters of Cuiviénen, long before Arien and Tilion would sail their ships, the Sun and the Moon, upon the skies. Thus their bond to the Lady Varda had always been stronger than that of the Elves of later generations, even the noblest of the Eldar. There were few, even in Valinor, of their age, though most of their people followed them from Tirion to the slopes of Taniquetil, to dwell in the neighbourhood of the Elder King, for the Vanyar were the most faithful to the teachings and leadership of the Valar.

Yet only the King and the Queen had been invited to dwell in the Hall of Ilmarin, the house of Manwë and Varda, the most wondrous dwelling that even Valinor had seen. For it was built of white and blue marble and lay high among the fields of everlasting snow upon the pinnacle of Taniquetil. The watchtower of those wide and airy halls was domed by a sparkling web of the blue upper air called ilwë that lies above the grey and the white, woven by Aulë and Yavanna and sparkled with stars by Varda herself. Through this sparkling web of airs Manwë and Varda could view all Arda, even the Gates of Dawn beyond the Eastern Sea. The other halls, including those of Ingwë and Erinti and their children, had roofs of marble or stone like any ordinary – though beautiful – house.

The King and the Queen were sitting in the inner courtyard by the fountain. As it was near sunset in Valinor, the last rays of Arien’s ship shone slanted through the leaves of the immortal, fragrant trees standing around in the court, painting the water of the fountain in the most wondrous hues of red and gold. High up the water of the fountain sprang from the wide open beak of some fantastic marble bird, and it fell back into the upper bowl with a soft splash, spilled over its rim, into the lower, wider bowl, and finally flowed down into a round marble basin and vanished through a leak in the bottom of it, returning to the subterranean spring where it had come from.

Ingwë and Erinti often sat in this court, listening to the never-ending song of running water and falling water, as it reminded them of the innocence of their awakening at Cuiviénen, the starlit days and dark trees, the first joys and the first fears. They were the eldest of the Children of Ilúvatar, and though they willingly accepted the leadership and the protection of the Valar, their hearts could never forget the Waters of their Awakening, no more than any-one can forget the womb of which they were born.

When they saw the Lady of the Stars walk out of one of the passages encircling the court, they rose in respect, as they would do to greet anyone who would visit them. For such was the custom of Elves, even if they were mighty Kings; and they bowed to her.

“Lady Varda,” Ingwë said in his deep, melodious voice, “your presence honours us. What unexpected event do we have to thank for the pleasure?”

Varda smiled. She was very fond of the Vanyar, tall, golden, valiant and faithful as they were; she could understand all too well why Oromë had been so enchanted by the Quendi when he had first found them under the starlit skies of the Outer Lands. They were stunningly radiant, even in the eyes of the Valar, as if they had been born from the light of Laurelin, the Golden Tree.

Varda herself wore the form of a tall, grave and beautiful woman, clad in shimmering white and with white gems adorning her brow like tiny, twinkling stars. She seemed to be made of mist and moonlight rather than of flesh and blood, and her long, shining black hair flowed around her slender frame like an ankle-long, black silk coat. Dark were her eyes, too, like the living night that had once been without fear, and yet there was a light in them, unlike any brightness they had ever seen.

“There is no need for formalities, my friend,” she said to the King of Elves. “There never was; you know that. Let us all sit together and have a talk, should we?”

They sat on the broad, semi-circular benches around the basin of the fountain. Ilmarë, Varda’s handmaid came with refreshments, then left again noiselessly. For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the splashes of the fountain. Then Erinti stirred, turning her azure eyes to the Lady of the Stars.

“You seem troubled, my Lady,” she said. Her voice, too, was deep for a woman, and her eyes hid a wisdom not even Varda could fully comprehend. For the Valar had no true understanding of evil, even if they had seen its work in the world. But in the hearts of Elves, even the noblest of them, that dark seed was present, albeit dormant, and their insights often proved to be great help for their benefactors.

“What happened?” continued Erinti. “Does it concern our people?”

“It may,” said Varda thoughtfully. “My heart – and that of my Lord – is concerned about the Outer Lands. The Elves who chose to remain there are without a King, without guidance. We fear that which might happen to them, should the Shadow stir again.”

“They are not entirely without guidance,” said Erinti. “They do still have Kings – or leaders that are Kings in all but a crown and a title. The kin of Elwë Singollo is still strong and wise. And there is still Elrond, the last of Melian’s blood.”

“There still is strength in the Outer Lands,” added Ingwë. “My son found greatness among the Moriquendi when he led our warriors to fight in the War of Wrath. And though many of them have fallen in the recent wars, Nówë⁽¹⁾ is still there, to offer strength, wisdom and guidance.”

“And yet the Moriquendi were decimated in the long war against Sauron,” Varda reminded him, “even though they had their Kings and warlords then, and quite a few of those who had seen the Light of the Trees. All they have now are a few scattered realms without a leader who could unite them.”

“There will never bee a true union again,” a new voice said and Eärendil, tall and dark and fair beyond measure with the Silmaril upon his brow, entered the court. He, too, dwelt under Manwë and Varda’s roof and boarded his ship from a high peak at sunset every day. “Too much has been lost. Not even Elrond, may he be the son of the evening star, though, could unite them again, and he has the blood of Maiar, Elves and Men in his veins. The innocence of our people was lost by the first sword-stroke that spilled the blood of our kin in Alqualondë; and what remained was shattered during the sack of Doriath and in Tol Sirion. Should the Shadow stir again, as you fear it, my Lady, the Elves cannot subdue it alone. And I know not how the hearts of Men would answer. Elrond is now the only true link between Elves and Men, but he cannot do this alone.”

“He is not alone,” said Ingwë. “He has Glorfindel at his side. And Glorfindel is more than just a rehoused Elf. He had been more already when he was released, for he had been re-made in a specific manner to make him able to aid Eönwë in the Outer Lands.”

“And since Eönwë has touched his spirit, he has grown even greater,” Erinti added. “He has much of the Maiar in him now. He has aided Elrond through an entire Age; and he aided him well.”

“That is true,” Eärendil admitted. “Yet in the previous Age Lindon was a strong realm, and so was Númenórë; yet now these are both gone. The Outer Lands are vulnerable. They need help.”

“We know that,” said Varda. In her present shape she seemed almost fragile amidst of these tall, strong, imposing Elves, yet her strength shone through her fana like a beacon. “And we are ready to do something about that.”

“What are you going to do, my Lady?” asked Ingwë with a frown. “The Outer Lands cannot bear the wrath of the Valar another time; or all that which is still there of them will break and sink under the Sea.”

“That is known to us as well,” replied Varda; then, with an amused glint in her dark eyes, she added. “We will try to be more… creative this time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later Manwë and Varda were sitting upon their thrones in Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, the councilplace of the Valar, near the golden gates of Valmar. This was the place where all important decisions were made. This was where Melkor had been sentenced and then freed. This was where Fëanáro had been sentenced to exile. This was where Mandos had spoken his curse above the Fëanorians and where Eärendil had held his plea on behalf of the Outer Lands. This was from where Arda was ruled, and all those which lived upon it.

This time, however, only Yavanna was present in person, aside from Manwë and Varda; for the Valar had learned from the mistakes made earlier and did not leave the farther parts of the Blessed Realm unwatched anymore. The others had sent their most trusted aides from the ranks of the Maiar to speak for them – and for themselves, as Varda’s message had made it clear that some of them would have to take this great task upon themselves.

They were eight in the number, sent by the Aratar, the greatest of the Valar, and though Manwë had hoped that more would come to choose from, he had no other choice than to open the council with as many as they were available, and to explain them what was needed to be done. It took him quite some time, and the others were listening intently.

“Three emissaries are the least that must be sent out to Middle-earth,” he finally said. “But who would go? For they must be mighty, peers of Sauron, but must forgo might, and clothe themselves in flesh so as to treat on equality and win the trust of Elves and Men. But this would imperil them, dimming their wisdom and knowledge, and confusing them with fears, cares and weakness coming from the flesh.⁽²⁾”

There was a long silence in the Ring of Doom, all the possible candidates pondering over that which they had heard. Finally, after a lengthy amount of time, two of them rose and came forth. One of these was Curumo, chosen by Aulë, the Smith, and the other one Alatariel, sent by Oromë, the Hunter.

“Send me, my Lord,” said Curumo, “for once, before he turned to the darkness, Sauron had been my brother, and we had worked side by side in the great smithies of our Lord, Aulë. I know how his mind works; and I have the skills to counter the work of his hands as well, should the need arise.”

“I shall go as well,” said Alatariel, her gold-flecked blue eyes turning hard and grey like steel. “Once, long before Arien or Tilion sailed the skies on their gleaming ships, before even the Elves opened their eyes at Cuiviénen, I had hunted Melkor’s creatures with my Lord, Oromë, under the dark trees of the Outer Lands. I am no huntress anymore, but my hands are skilled to at healing the wounds of Elves and Men and the earth itself. I will be needed.”

“If Alatariel goes, then so shall I,” said Pallando, the emissary of Mandos and Nienna. “Wisdom and support in their grief the peoples of the Outer Lands shall need – I can provide that. And with me, the number of emissaries that is needed would be full, it seems.”

“Nay, it would not!” protested Yavanna in dismay. “You only think of those which could speak for themselves. The number of the emissaries should include one with love and care and understanding for the Kevlar and Olvar. For they had been there long before Elves and Men, and without them, the incarnates could not live out heir lives at all. Do they not deserve to have a protector, just because they cannot send one of themselves over the Sea to make that plea in their names?”

“Your argument does have its merits,” Varda nodded, “and I do not see why we could not send more than three. Who would be your choice?”

“I chose Aiwendil,” Yavanna gestured towards her companion, “the lover of birds and trees and the wild beasts. For that, the Wood-Elves would trust him and listen to him, I deem.”

Manwë looked at the other volunteers, and he saw Alatariel and Pallando smile in agreement; they were both fond of Aiwendil. Only Curumo’s face showed a vague unwillingness, but that was not surprising. The Maiar of Aulë and those of Yavanna were often in disagreement – which was the main reason why the latter had chosen to dwell on Yavanna’s pastures, outside Valmar, instead of Aulë’s great court with their Lady.

Maybe it will be good for both sides to work together on such an important task, Manwë thought.

“So be it,” he said, granting Yavanna’s request. “But where is Olórin? I hoped to have him here today, as he is the one who has had the closest acquaintance with the Elves who remained in Valinor, in all these Ages. Why has he not come?”

“I have come, my Lord, albeit a little late,” a deep voice said, and turned towards the sound, they all could see the emissary of Irmo, clad in grey, seating himself at the edge of the council. “I apologise for my tardiness. A long journey to the Soundless Sea hindered me to be here on time. What would you have of me, my Lord?”

“I wanted to send you to the Outer Lands as our third emissary,” answered Manwë, “but as that place is taken already, I shall send you as the fifth and last.”

At that Varda, who had been deep in thought, looked up with her unfathomable eyes and said quietly, “Not as the last.”

So quietly she said this, that no-one but those who sat closest heard it in the first place; not even Olórin himself. But Curumo did hear it, and a shadow of displeasure flickered across his noble face, too quickly for anyone to notice.

Olórin, however, shook his head in apology.

“Nay, my Lord,” he said, “I am too week for such a task. I am not a warrior or a builder, and I willingly admit to fear the dark powers of our abhorrent brother. I am but a counsellor of Lord Irmo and a pupil of the Lady Nienna, and my only skill is to awake thoughts in the hearts of those who hearken to me – thoughts of things that have not been yet but might yet be made for the enrichment of Arda.”

“That,” said Manwë, “is all the more reason for you to go.”

“But I cannot be of much use there,” Olórin argued. “Why not send Salmar?⁽³⁾” he nodded towards the Maia sent by Ulmo. “He, at least, could heal the stained waters of Middle-earth and turn them into allies of Elves and Men again.”

Salmar shifted on his seat uncomfortably, apparently no more willing to go to Middle-earth than Olórin himself. Fortunately for him, Manwë had already made up his mind in this matter.

“You shall go, for I order you to go,” he said to Olórin sternly. “Your skills would be sorely needed among the peoples of shattered hope, and your weakness, as you call it, might prove to be the greatest strength possible in the fullness of time.”

Olórin bowed obediently. He did not wish to go, but when he was needed, he would go, for such was his nature. He could not deny his help from those who required it.

“Am I to go alone or am I to take a companion with me as the others do?” was all he asked.

Manwë looked at Varda for counsel, as the Lady of the Stars seemed to have some insight concerning Olórin; insight that Manwë himself had not.

“You will go alone,” said Varda to Olórin, “but not right away. I need to discuss your task with you in some length first. I say, we send Curumo first, and with him Aiwendil; the former to look out for any possible hiding places of Sauron and the latter to make an inventory of the destruction that the Outer Lands have suffered. Until now, we only had rumours and tales, told by Elves who had fled Middle-earth in terror. We need one of our own to survey it. Aiwendil can also send tidings by way of his friends, the birds to Mithlond, and from there we can receive them easily, with the help of Ossë and his people. I strongly suggest that we send those two first.”

All agreed, though Curumo could not fully hide his displeasure with this forced companionship. But he could do nothing against Varda’s wishes or Manwë’s orders.

“When we know more about what is going on in the Outer Lands, we shall send Alatariel and Pallando after you,” Varda continued, “the Healer and the Supporter. Olórin will follow them alone, when the time for the Counsellor is right.”

“And thus he will be the last, after all,” commented Curumo softly, his dark eyes glittering and a thin smile curving his lips. Varda gave him a long, hard look.

“The last to arrive,” she replied quietly. “The rest is up to you. Be careful, though, Curumo of the Aulendili, and do not allow your pride to mislead you. For pride was what caused the downfall of your brother; and clad in a body taken from the tainted matter of the Outer Lands would make you forget many things that you know now, and you shall have to re-learn these things, all of you, on the long and arduous way of other incarnates.”

Curumo was silent for a while, weighing this in his cunning mind.

“’Tis a great risk that we are taking here, my Lady,” he finally said. Varda nodded.

“Greater than you might think. Never has anyone of our Order worn a fana taken from that soil permanently, save Melian. Eönwë himself could barely endure it at the end, and he is the mightiest among your ranks. This is why you must become less, smaller for this mission; or else the fire of your spirit would tear those bodies apart. Your task is harder, more perilous than Eönwë’s has been – do not take it lightly.”

“I shall not,” replied Curumo solemnly; “nor shall I disappoint you, my Lady.”

“That is my hope,” said Varda. “You are our hope – you and the others who will go with you.”

Curumo bowed in acceptance, and with that, the council came to an end.

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) The actual name of Círdan, the Shipwright.

(2) Quoted directly from “The Unfinished Tales”, Part Four, II. The Istari, p. 410

(3) According to “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, Salmar, also called Noldorin or Lirillo, was one of the companions of Ulmo – not as well-known as Uinen or Ossë, but rather important nevertheless.

The Fledgling Years

by Soledad

Series: Prequel to “Innocence” – a young Lindir story.

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Foreword.

Author’s notes:

The description of Alqualondë is based on the one given in “The Book of Lost Tales 1”. Understandably, things have changed quite a bit since then – this is how I imagined Alqualondë might look at the beginning of the Third Age. Elves may be big on tradition, but even they must move on, eventually. Ainairos used to be a canon character in TBLT but was rejected later.

The destruction of the great stone arch of the haven is shown in detail in “The Dying Stone”, a short one-shot that you can also find in this archive.

Chapter 02: The White Ships of Alqualondë

Alqualondë never recovered from the horrors of the first Kinslaying; not truly. Not entirely.

The Teleri had long since cleaned up the spilt blood from the long quays, from where their wondrous white Swanships had once been taken by force by Fëanáro and his followers. The golden lamps and many-coloured lanterns had been replaced. But the white fleet that was now laying at the lamplit quays, albeit made with skill and long, loving labour, was but a pale shadow of the great Swanships of old, built accordingly to the instructions of Ossë himself and with the help of his household.

And the mighty arch of living stone, the gateway broken by the restless waters through the high ring of white rock encircling the Swanhaven, the one through which the great ships had once come shimmering home, lay in broken pieces on the bottom of the Shadowy Seas. Only a few ragged parts reminded still of that fateful day when it had been poisoned by the spilt blood of the Teleri and died. Of the day on which Ossë, in his wrath and grief about the loss of its harmonic vibrations that had gone mute and deaf, had broken it with one mighty blow of his huge, watery fist.

And yet, the harbour Curumo and Aiwendil were entering now was still very beautiful to gaze upon, as the troubled waters of the Shadowy Seas broke the mirrored radiance of the golden lamps hanging along the quays, waving many twinkling ribbons of light. And Curumo stood long there, admiring the many-coloured spectacle, and his heart was filled with awe, for he had never known that light, once broken, could produce such an amazing sight. It seemed to him that his adventures had already begun, and begun under a lucky star.

But Aiwendil was anxious to get on his way; eager to see the Outer Lands that no-one of their Order had seen since the War of Wrath. And so reluctantly, Curumo tore his eyes away from the wharves and the landings of the different houses that were shimmering like white pearls in the colourful pattern of lights; and they went on to seek out the Harbour Master who could provide them with the means of getting to Tol Eressëa first. From there, they would have to wait for one of Nówë’s ships, as no Swanship of the Blessed Realm was allowed to return to the mortal shores again, not ere the End of Days, when Arda would be re-made and all those who were now lost would return.

Ainairos, the Harbour Master of the Haven of the Swans, was an Elf of the third generation and born in Aman already – exceptionally tall for one of the Teleri and clad in shadowy grey. Only his long hair, bound and braided tightly away from his chiselled face, was gleaming like pure silver. His eyes, deep and dark grey, almost black in the twilight, glittered in surprise at the sight of the newcomers. Never before had Alqualondë such strange visitors!

For the two Maiar came in the disguise of Men. Elderly but powerful Men, clad in heavy, ankle-length robes and cloaks. The hair and beard of Curumo was glossy black, with only a little silver woven into it here and there; and his eyes were deep and dark like burning coal. He was clad entirely in white and leaned onto a staff as long as he was tall. The staff was wrought of mithril, the wondrous metal of the Dwarves of Moria that had been brought from Middle-earth after the War of Wrath for the Aulëndili, to study it and to work with it. Its upper end was formed like clutched claws, and in those clutches a large, white, many-facetted gem glimmered, one of those which could capture and hold the light of the Lady Varda’s stars.

Aiwendil was like the earth itself. He looked considerably younger than Curumo and was clad in brown. Brown – or rather russet – was his beard and hair, too, which he – unlike his fellow Maia – did not wear down but pulled back in a tight ponytail. His staff, at first sight, looked like a strong tree-branch, knotted at the upper end, where he, too, could place a white jewel should the need arose; right now, that setting was empty, as he was a more modest soul. His eyes, however, were just like those of Curumo: deep, dark and unfathomable.

Ainairos could see at once that they were no Elves – the beard and the rounded ears gave them away at once. And as only Elves and the Powers themselves dwelt in Aman, they could only be the representatives of the Lesser Powers in Mannish disguise. No mortal could set foot in the Undying Lands and survive the deep shock of it, as Ar-Pharazôn, the last, doomed King of Númenórë, had learned at the cost of his life… and those of most of his people.

Ainairos decided to be very polite with these two. He was all too aware of the fact that his reputation among the Powers was not the best one. The Valar had found the harsh words he had raised against the Noldor after the Kinslaying unbecoming of an Elf of Aman, and they had made their displeasure very obvious. Ainairos had been seen as some kind of rebel himself ever since; more so as he had also bitterly protested when the Teleri had been asked to ferry the Host of Valinor over to Beleriand, at the beginning of the War of Wrath.

To tell the truth, he had not revised his opinion ever since, not even after his father, Oivárin, had spoken to him about it and tried to make him more… forgiving. The Noldor had slain his twin brothers, and they had forced him to spill their blood in defence of his people and his ships. They had made a monster out of him; one just like them. That was something he could never and would never forget or forgive.

However, as the Valar had clearly not been pleased with his attitude, Ainairos rarely left Alqualondë during the last Age to visit other parts of Aman. He knew he would not be welcome. Tirion was full of rehoused Exiles and their kin; he did not want to even see them, lest the old bitterness and hatred awoke in his heart again. It had already poisoned his whole life, and very few seemed to understand him. ‘Twas a relief that at least Lord Ossë appeared to keep his long grudge, or else he might have become and outcast.

Still, to be polite to these two shrouded in such an unusual fana could do no harm. So he bowed respectfully, and greeted them.

“Welcome to Alqualondë, the Haven of the Swanships,” he said. “I am Ainairos, son of Oivárin, and Harbour Master here. How can I be of service?”

“We need a ship that could bring us to Tol Eressëa,“ the one clad in white said. “I am called Curumo and belong to Lord Aulë’s people. This is Aiwendil, a companion of the Lady Yavanna. We are on an errand from the Elder King himself.”

Ainairos nodded in understanding. “World has been sent to us to expect your arrival,” he said. “I just have not expected to see you in such an… unusual form.”

“There are reasons for that; reasons I am not free to reveal,” answered Curumo. “Now, do you have a ship for us?”

“Indeed I do,” said Ainairos, “and she can set sail any time you want. However, King Olwë has expressed his wish to speak to you ere you leave.”

“Why would he want that?” Curumo was visibly impatient about the delay, but when the King of the Teleri required a word with him, he could hardly refuse. The Valar had warned their lesser brethren repeatedly to show Olwë proper respect; more so after the tragic events at Alqualondë, for which they still felt partially responsible.

Ainairos shrugged. “I am just his messenger, not the keeper of his secrets.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Olwë’s mansions stood a little higher above the harbour, made of white marble and adorned with patterns of mother-of pearl and gleaming white pearls. A long marble staircase with flat steps led from the landing to the open gates of the palace, which was crowned by a shimmering dome, held by slender pillars: the place from where the King was said to watch the stars on some nights.

A white-clad servant came to greet them with a deep bow and asked them to follow him to the inner court of the palace. It was an airy, square place, surrounded by the various wings of the palace and seamed by fragrant trees. The fountain in the middle was shaped in the likeness of some bizarre sea monster, and – just like in Ingwë’s garden – low, semi-circular marble benches stood around it, with flat silken pillows strewn across the seat to make them more comfortable.

Olwë was alone in the court and rose respectfully when the two Maiar entered. Like all the firstborn Quendi whose eyes had opened at the dark waters of Cuiviénen, he was exceptionally tall and broad-shouldered. His heavy mass of shimmering hair – turned snow white from the original silver after the horrible deeds of the first Kinslaying – flowed down his back like water. His white robe was sewn with pearls, and he wore a wide cloak of midnight blue, embroidered with silver, over it. His face was pale and stunningly beautiful, his eyes large, wide-set and deep blue like the summer sky, and his voice, as he greeted the two Maiar courteously, deep and melodious like the murmurs of the distant Sea.

“My lady begs for your forgiveness,” he then said. “She wished to offer you her farewells properly, but as she has been haunted by terrifying visions for quite a few days, she is feeling strangely weakened. Which was the reason why I have asked for this meeting before your departure.”

“What kind of visions?” asked Curumo. He was displeased by the delay, but he knew that Elven foresight, especially that of the few remaining Eldest, could be revealing sometimes. “And what can they possibly do with us?”

“Visions regarding Middle-earth,” answered Olwë grimly. “Of the stirring of shadows in dark places anew; small signs that can head to great disasters if overlooked. Of the rise and fall of kingdoms of Elves and Men; and the terrible fates of our kin.”

“I do not understand,” said Curumo. “Are not all the great Elven kingdoms of Middle-earth long gone and forgotten? Gil-galad’s realm was the last, and it, too, fell apart when he was slain on the battle plains of Dagorlad by the black hand of the Abhorrent One. There is no more power to the Elves in Middle-earth.”

But Aiwendil shook his head in disagreement and spoke in sorrow.

“That has ever been the grievous mistake of the Powers,” he said. “That we have forgotten those who had chosen to remain in the lands of their birth: Elmö, who was brother to Olwë and Elwë Singollo, and King over the First City of the Quendi, destroyed by the fire-demons of the Fallen One.

“Lenwë, who turned back from the Great Journey, for he could not abandon his homeland, and yet he was the driving power in the Battle Under Stars, the only one of the great battles of Beleriand of which the Elves emerged victorious. He might have fallen in that battle, but his children and grandchildren are still roaming the Outer Lands and are a force to be reckoned with.

“Nówë and the Falathrim, who have served every Elven kingdom in three Ages, coming to their aid in battles and helping their people to escape across the sea. In our blindness, we deemed them unimportant and unwise, for they loved their lands too dearly to leave, even in the greatest of perils.”

“And there are Elven realms in Middle-earth still,” Olwë added. “Small and hidden they might be, but they keep fighting the Shadow, so that it cannot darken the lands that once were meant to belong to the Quendi. Elmö’s children and grandchildren, my kin, are still ruling the great forests of the Wilderland, and some are even called Kings.

“And while Nerwendë Artanis is no Queen by title, she still carries the power and wisdom of the West in her, like all those who have seen the Light of the Two Trees. She, too, is a power to be reckoned with; and so is Elrond, who has the blood of your own Order in his veins, through Melian.”

“What do truly you wish from us, King of the Havens?” asked Curumo. “Why have you called us here?”

“I wanted to warn you that not everything might be as peaceful in Middle-earth as it perchance looks at first sight,” replied Olwë. “I wanted to remind you that there is some strength still among our kind there. And that you should not simply dismiss those who loved their homeland too greatly to abandon it for the Blessed Realm. There is power in a love so strong; and those whom many of us call the Moriquendi in our ignorance, the Dark Elves, have a bond with the lands there that we, who have left them behind for the beauty and the safety of Aman, cannot even begin to understand. Do not underestimate it.”

“Earth magic can do little to nought against our fallen brother, should he stir again,” said Curumo dismissively. “We have seen that he can torture the very hills.”

“That might be so,” answered Olwë. “Yet ‘tis also true that the love of the Elves for their land and their works is deeper than the deeps of the Sea, and their regret is undying and cannot ever wholly be assuaged. ‘Tis a strength of which the resistance against the Darkness was born of old; a strength they use to guard their realms against all that is evil. A strength you might find useful in your labours in Middle-earth.”

Curumo clearly was not persuaded but chose not to argue with the ancient Elf in whose halls they were naught but honoured guests, after all. The Valar had a peculiar fondness for the Eldest among the Quendi, and even the lesser spirits did well to treat those with proper respect, as some of them had learned the rather… unpleasant way.

Olwë fell in silence after than, unaware of the white wizard’s impatience, and as Aiwendil chose not to speak either, out of respect for the King’s grief, the silence stretched on and on. It was not broken ‘til the arrival of a male Elf, younger than Olwë yet so alike him that they had to be related.

He was tall, this newcomer, even for an Elf of an early generation; tall and slender, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, with his fine, silver hair flowing down his back to this waist like a curtain of glimmering spring rain. His pale face had the same elegant features as Olwë’s, with high cheekbones and wide, dark blue eyes that revealed his true age, as they reflected the light of the Two Trees he once had seen.

Just like Olwë, he was stunningly beautiful, even with Elven measure, but with a hard glint in his eyes that had not yet been tempered by Olwë’s ancient wisdom. It was, as Aiwendil had come to realize, a common trait by Elves born back in the Outer Lands, before the Great Journey. Such hardness could not be found in those born in the never-ending peace of Aman. Therefore, this stunning creature must have been fairly old himself, despite his youthful looks.

Unlike Olwë, he was clad in shadowy grey, in the manner of the mariners of Alqualondë, although his clothes were richly adorned with silver embroidery and white pearls. His hair was unbraided, save from two delicate plaits above his ears and held together by a silver clasp, set with pearls, on the back of his head. A pearl-studded, fine silver circle adorned his brow, giving him a regal appearance.

He held a transverse flute in his hands: a long, beautifully-crafted instrument, made not of silver but of mithril, as Curumo’s practiced eye realised with a pang of jealousy. The flute also wore the unmistakable stamp of Lord Aulë’s own handiwork.

“I have found it, Atar,” said the newcomer, handing the flute to Olwë and sketching a cursory bow in the direction of their guests.

“My son Elulindo,” introduced him Olwë as an afterthought.

Second or third generation Elves often were given such melodious names, as the Quendi of old had found great joy in the beautiful ringing of words. Only later did the Eldar of Aman return to the simpler, more sober-sounding names, although they never quite reached the simplicity of the first generation.

Not until the Exiles would begin to return and insisted on keeping the harsh-sounding Sindarin versions of their names, that is.

Thus Elulindo had most likely been named Elwëlindo originally, after his uncle. Why he had changed his name to such a mixed version, ‘twas hard to guess. It might have been out of respect for his uncle, who had wholly abandoned the use of Quenya in his realm and called himself Elu Thingol, becoming famous and unforgettable by that name. It could also be the sign of a certain stubborn independence even the Teleri of Aman displayed in times.

Or it could have been a welcoming gesture for those who had returned from the Outer Lands or had been released from Mandos and still felt out of place in Aman. A great many of the latter had been slain during the Sack of Doriath and therefore would have been grateful for the respect shown for their fallen King.

Whatever the true reason might have been – if indeed it was not an amalgam of all the possible reasons – Elulindo, heir and only living son of Olwë, was doubtlessly a valiant, headstrong Elf; one of the very few Teleri who had actually fought in the War of Wrath, commandeering the White Fleet that had ferried the Host of Valinor to Beleriand. He might have laid the sword aside by now, but there could be no question that he was still a warrior at heart.

The King of Alqualondë now took the flute from his son and handed it to Aiwendil.

“I am told that you were chosen to be sent to the great forests of the Outer Lands… or what is still there of them,” he said. “Therefore you are the one most likely to meet what progeny of my two brothers might still dwell there. For this reason I wish to entrust this to you.”

“’Tis beautiful,” Aiwendil turned the flute this way and that, admiring the exquisite made of it. “Does it have a particular importance for your clan?”

“’Tis an old family heirloom,” answered Olwë, touching the flute briefly as if it could have felt his caress. “Two such flutes were once made in Lord Aulë’s forge; and Lord Oromë brought them with him to the Waters of Awakening as gifts. My brother Elwë received one; the other one was given to me.”

He fell silent again, and the two Maiar waited respectfully. ‘Twas a known fact how close the two brothers once had been, and that Olwë was still grieving the loss of his brother, even two whole Ages later.

“I am told that Elwë gifted his flute upon the young son of Oropher, son of our brother Elmö,” he finally continued, “as the boy had shown a great gift in music. I wish this other flute to be given to any young Elf of Telerin heritage with a gift akin his, if you can find one during your travels. For the Outer Lands have forgotten much of the Great Music in the bitter struggles of the last two Ages, and they need help to remember again.”

“’Tis will be a kingly gift indeed,” said Aiwendil. “More so as I heard that you, too, are a skilled player who enjoys playing on the shores with the pipers of your own people.”

“Not anymore,” replied Olwë, his noble face paling almost to translucence. “Not since the Singing Rock of Alqualondë had turned dead and mute and Lord Ossë broke it in his grief and rage.”

“You have not played for two Ages?” Aiwendil was stunned.

“There is no music left in my heart,” answered Olwë tiredly, “and perchance will never be again ‘til Arda is re-made… or beyond.”

“You could give the flute to your son,” suggested Aiwendil, but Olwë shook his head.

“Nay, for he prefers the harp… if he is inclined to make music at all, which happens rarely enough.”

Both Maiar turned to the younger Elf as one, with identically shocked expressions on their faces. For an Elf – for a Teleri Elf at that, who were not called the Lindar (the Singers) without a reason – to be less than interested in music was… well, almost an abomination.

Elulindo shrugged. “You are not the one who had lost the music of your heart, Atar. At least I can still find some solace when I am riding the waves of the Shadowy Seas with Lord Ossë and his entourage. ‘Tis a great honour, and the song of the deep waters eases my heart.”

Curumo and Aiwendil knew, of course, that there were a chosen few whom Ossë took out with his vassals, the lesser spirits of the waters, to the deep seas, to reveal them the wonders that lay beneath the surface. The Aratári were not pleased with this custom of his. They wanted their Elves safely tucked away, either in Aman or, at the very least, on Tol Eressëa.

But there were very few, even among the greatest of the Valar, who could give orders to the restless Lord of the Waves… save Ulmo himself, and even he was careful to pick his fights with his chief vassal. Ossë – as well as his spouse the Lady Uinen – might have belonged to the Lesser Powers by name, but they certainly could measure themselves with the Valar on any day. Not even Eönwë, mightiest of the Maiar, could truly compare himself with them.

Therefore, if it pleased the wild Ossë to take a few chosen Elves with him and his entourage – the Oarni and the Falmaríni and the long-tressed Wingildi, the spirits of the Sea and the foam of the ocean – on his journeys to the hidden wonders of the Shadowy Seas, no-one could tell him to do otherwise. That he would have the son of Elwë among those few was not truly surprising. The Teleri – especially the Falathrim – had always been his favourites, as they were bound to the Sea almost the same way as himself. And Elulindo seemed to be just the kind of rebellious Elf in which Ossë the Restless would find a kindred spirit.

He now turned to the two Maiar in mortal disguise and said with a thin, sardonic smile. “Worry not about the safety of your journey, Emissaries of the West. For at least ‘til Tol Eressëa, you shall travel aboard my own ship, the Tinwerîna, and she always sails under the protective hand of Lord Ossë. No harm can reach you under his protection.”

Those words filled Aiwendil’s heart with relief; for he and Ossë had a special bond, through the sea-birds that had once lived under his care in Yavanna’s garden, some white and some black, and some both white and black. Yet one day, way back when the Two Trees had still been blooming in the Blessed Land, some of those birds had left the gardens, driven by the desire to see the Shadowy Seas.

They had flown high and far; and after a while, they had not found anywhere to settle and became dazed among the shadows. But Ossë had taken a liking to them, coaxing them to settle about his mighty shoulders, and he had taught them to swim and given them great strength of wing. And he had poured fishy oils upon their feathers that they might bear the waters, and he had fed them small fish.

When Aiwendil, having looked for his beloved birds for many days, had finally found his way to the coastal isles, he had seen the marvellous changes gifted upon his former charges and he had wept with joy. And from that time on, even though they had never been truly close, he and Ossë had become friends and allies.

Often would Aiwendil enjoy the hospitality of Ossë and Uinen’s house – the one with floors of sea-water, with tapestries like the glint of the silver skin of fishes, and with the high roof of sea-foam. Thousands of pearls adorned it walls, pearls that the Lady Uinen and the Oarni – the spirits of the deep Sea – had brought up from the sea-ground, and the Oaritsi, wearing a fana that was half-maiden and half-fish, were dancing tirelessly in the coral gardens under the house.

Aiwendil adored the colourful, shimmering creatures of the Sea as much as his hosts – or their Teleri vassals – did; for he was a friend of all living things, just as his Lady. And thus he was one of the very few from their Order whom the every-angry Ossë considered as a friend. He had naught to fear from the Lord of the Waves.

Curumo, on the other hand, did not belong to those. He was one of the Aulendili, and as such more in league with the Noldor, against whom Ossë was still keeping long-held grudges. Not so much for their rebellion (he was rebellious enough himself, after all) but for the resulting Kinslaying in Alqualondë – the very harbour in which they were sitting right now.

Thus the thought of travelling under the watchful eye of the Lord of the Seas was little to no comfort for Curumo. He said so. Aiwendil was taken aback by his less-than-gracious comment, but Elulindo just laughed at it.

“Lord Ossë might not feel great love for you,” he said with twinkling eyes; everyone knew that Ossë cared very little for his fellow Maiar, save for his spouse, “but he has chosen me as a companion, and thus he will always protect my ship and send me waves that will move us towards our goal.”

“But what will we do once we reached Tol Eressëa?” asked Curumo, clearly frustrated.

Elulindo shrugged. “No ships are allowed to leave the harbour of Avallóne and sail backwards on the Olórë Mallë, once their mariners had set foot on Elvenhome,” he said. “The only ships that may sail back and forth between here and the Outer Lands are those of Nówë, who is now the Lord of the Havens... or what is left of them. You will have to wait for the arrival of a ship from Mithlond to get back with the Falathrim.”

“But that can take a long time, and our mission is urgent!” protested Curumo, clearly displeased.

Olwë laughed quietly. “It can,” he agreed, “yet I very much doubt that it will. Lord Irmo and Lady Estë see the future in their dreams. If the Valar chose to send you on this errand right now, be assured that there will be a ship available.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That seemed to comfort Curumo a little, and after they had spoken their farewells to King Olwë, they followed the King’s son back to the harbour to begin their long journey immediately. They knew they would not see these shores for a very long time; that guiding Elves and Men of the Outer Lands in their long twilight struggle against Sauron would be a task measured by millennia.

But they were Maiar, immortal spirits born of Ilúvatar’s thoughts; they had time. Even in their mortal disguise, they had time. They would age very slowly; and although the burden of a true incarnation might grow with the passing of yéni, they would have enough time and strength to work for an Age or two, if they had to.

They had taken this difficult task upon themselves willingly and were now eager to begin. Elulindo led them down the lamplit quay to a long, stone jetty that reached into the water like the slender white finger of some huge, mythical creature. And at the end of that jetty a white ship was waiting for them.

‘Twas not one of those magical vessels built with the help of Ossë’s people, of course. None of those had survived Fëanáro’s madness. Still, it was a beautiful ship, built in the likeness of a great swan and equipped with a sail, white like the wing of a swan. Grey-clad Elven mariners – all Teleri, and quite a few of them having the silver hair of the royal clan – were making preparations for leaving the harbour.

They greeted Elulindo joyously, which made Aiwendil wonder just how often would the son of Olwë leave them alone to follow Lord Ossë on his perilous maritime adventures, and after having sung the proper hymns to the Lady Uinen, asking for her blessings and protection, they set off without any further delay. Elulindo obviously liked to be on board very much, and he did not feel too fine – being the son of their King, after all – to climb the masts and pull the ropes, like everyone else.

At first they sailed with the north wind at some distance from the eastern coastline of Valinor, the great mountain range of the Pelóri with its snow-capped peaks glittering in the distance. The Teleri mariners sang ancient songs to the wind, and for a while, they made considerable headway. But soon enough, they had to turn westward, for the coastal waters near Calcirya could be treacherous, even for the Sea-Elves. ‘Twas better, Elulindo explained, to turn away earlier and approach Tol Eressëa from the northwest, sailing around the northern half of the isle, as that path was hiding no dangerous currents underwater, but well an underwater stream that would guide them directly into the haven of Avallóne.

Unfortunately, the wind did not turn with them, and after a while they came to a windstill zone in the middle of the Bay of Eldamar. The Tinwerîna lay dead in the water, her great sail hanging limp from the central mast like a broken wing.

“Have we caught the stream yet?” asked Elulindo the steersman of his ship.

The broadly built (for an Elf, that is) Teleri by the name of Falathar shook his head grimly. A few wet strings of his long hair, otherwise wound into a tight knot on the nape of his neck, had come free and were now sticking to his face. He tucked them impatiently behind one elegantly shaped ear.

“We have turned away from the coastal wind too early,” he said. “I hoped our momentum would carry us far enough to catch the stream; clearly, I was mistaken.”

Elulindo frowned at him in displeasure. “Why have you turned away so early, then?”

“You have not travelled with us for quite some time,” answered Falathar. “Therefore you cannot know that the currents have been particularly troublesome lately. We tend to avoid them as much as possible.”

“So, what are you doing now?” demanded Curumo from Olwë’s son. “We cannot lie in dead water for only Ilúvatar may know how long. I thought you were one of Ossë’s pets – can you not ask for his help?”

Elulindo clearly did not like being called a pet, if the dangerous glint in his eyes was any indication. But he was diplomatic enough not to provoke a Maia; least one whom he was meant to ferry over to Tol Eressëa by the order of the Valar.

“I can,” he answered with forced calm, “and I will, as soon as I am assured there is naught we can do of our own to get out of here. One does not disturb Lord Ossë unnecessarily.”

Curumo swallowed a sharp reply, for even he, one of the greatest of the Aulendili, could not compare himself with he wild Ossë. Eönwë might be called Mightiest of the Maiar, but even he would think twice ere raising the ire of the Lord of the Seas.

Elulindo, in the meantime, discussed all possibilities with the steersman and the first mate of the Tinwerîna and decided that there was no way for them to get out of this dead water on their own. Therefore he ordered the great seashell trumpets to be blown, signalling their patron that they needed help.

The deep, mournful sound had barely ebbed down when the surface of the water began to move. It seemed to Aiwendil as if an enormous creature would have been about to emerge from deep below the waves, with a smooth and rolling motion, causing the waters to swell up into a giant, foam-crowned wave behind the ship. For a moment, he seriously feared that the wave might swallow them.

But then the surface of the glittering water broke and parted like a curtain that was being pulled aside, and from behind it, out stepped Ossë, the Lord of the Waves. A vassal of Ulmo he might be, but little less in power than his overlord he was known to be, he and his spouse, the Lady Uinen.

He seemed a good forty feet tall, at the very least, his skin a glittering silver-blue, and his hair, white as sea-foam, trailed long after him, brushing the water as he stood. ‘Twas entwined with seashells and long ropes of sea grass. His stormy face, as he glared down them, was ageless and almost frighteningly beautiful, his expression one of mild annoyance. He could have easily held the Tinwerîna in his huge hands.

He reached down with one of said hands and lifted Elulindo, who stepped onto his watery palm fearlessly, closer to his large, silver eyes.

“Elulindo,” he said in a low, rumbling voice like the rolling of far thunder. “Tired of your own kind already?”

Elulindo laughed with an easy familiarity that revealed just how close the two of them were, unlikely though that might seem.

“On the contrary, my Lord,” he said. “I am trying to reach Tol Eressëa, yet for some reason, the wind seems to have abandoned us before we could catch the stream under the waves. Would you have anything to do that – or with the recent erratic behaviour of the wild currents?”

“I might,” rumbled the Sea-Lord. “’Twas said there would be no way back to the Outer Lands for your people – and yet you are sailing backwards? You know that way is closed.”

“Why, certainly,” said Elulindo. “I only take these worthy emissaries to Tol Eressëa. “’Tis up to Nówë’s people to get them to the Outer Lands; besides, you know I have no desire to go there anyway. The Waters of Awakening are no more, and there is naught else that would call to me.”

At that, Ossë lowered his hand and placed the Elf on board of the ship again.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall set you free. And you,” he added, looking at his two brethren, so much smaller and weaker now in their mortal disguise, “see that you fulfil your duties towards the Children of Ilúvatar.”

He closed his eyes and slowly dropped back into the water. As soon as he vanished, the great wave, which had stood motionlessly beyond the Tinwerîna like a shimmering hill, rolled forward, tossing the ship as if it were but a nutshell, pushing it into the way of the underwater stream, so that it bounded forward at great speed gen Tol Eressëa.

~TBC~