"...And a Great Yearning Filled his Heart." 

The man awakes first.

I know he is a man, but deep in sleep you would not be able to tell him from one of the Eldar who never went to Aman. He is tall and broad, and now that he is awake he is swift of limbs; wary, looking around for danger, too troubled to show surprise.

She opens her eyes a moment after, and the glow within is unmistakable. This is most certainly one of the Firsborn who looked upon the light of the Two Trees.

Their gazes lock and their faces shine with instant recognition; they embrace with obvious relief.

I step forth, breaking the magic of their reunion. They look up in bewilderment and he puts a protective arm around her where they rest. I smile at this token of love and devotion.

“Do not fear me, Tuor, son of Huor. I am here to guide you to your fate.”

At this, his hand falls off her shoulder. He stands up and straightens, helps her up while shielding her with his body. He looks me in the eye squarely, undaunted in my presence as becomes one of such exalted destiny.

“I greet you, lord. I know not your name but I can see clearly that you are one of the Powers,” he says solemnly, bowing his head briefly in dignified respect. His voice is deep and soughing; I recognize Ulmo’s notes there. “If you know my name, you may also be aware of my errand. I request to be taken before the King of Arda, so I can beg pity and forgiveness for the Exiled Noldor and the Edain on behalf of both lineages, whom I love!”

“Your errand is no longer urgent, son of Huor. Others with a greater claim preceded you.”  I reach out to them. “Come, walk with me, there is much to discuss.” I wave before me and invite them to join me.

They walk in silence by my side, hand in hand, leaning upon each other, giving and taking comfort in a way that stirs something in me. After ennin of watching Eru’s children from afar it feels strange to keep their company now, to be reminded of their true nature, so different from ours, to recall the joy and love that were kindled within us when Eru first sang them into being. In their presence I feel young again, like a newly created being coming from Eru’s mind, awed by every detail revealed to be hidden in the Music.

I lead them to the shore, for I feel they will be more comfortable by the sea. He looks around with curiosity, and how could I fault him? The landscape is nothing like what they may have seen before, for this is Time as it once was. Here, the seas and mists and skies and winds weave and mix in a restless dance; there is no up or down, nor East or West; only a stretch of opalescent sand that I have conjured up, out of simple courtesy for my guests.

A bright shimmer somewhere in the distance struggles to cast some light into this colourless void in which the stars of my sister are yet to be kindled. “But she is still trying hard,” I muse with humour, considering her efforts. Only the remote glimmer of the Silmaril as it cruises close in its journeys manages to pierce this emptiness from time to time.

She studies me carefully, surely searching her memories of times long past, looking for a name.  

Once they are done assessing their surroundings and, I surmise, become aware that they did somehow stray beyond the known confines of Arda, the questions arrive fast as clouds carried by a strong wind.

“Where are we?”

“Who are you?”

“You are in a place of my creation, and I am…lord of this place,” I say. “It is not yet time for me to answer your questions, children, but this I will say for now: We have never met before, daughter of the house of Finwë, although you have indeed met most of my kin in Aman. Now, if you would sit down and listen to my tale, some of your doubts shall be dispelled.”

They look at each other, searching for counsel. Swift as rain, something passes between them that I cannot read. He concedes. With a graceful gesture he unclasps his cloak and spreads it on the sand, motioning for her to take a seat first.

“And now, children of Eru, see what has befallen since you forsook the mortal lands!” With a wave of my hand I summon a vision of things past, clearer and more beautifully threaded than anything in Vairë’s tapestries.

They watch in silence. She gasps at seeing the destruction of the Havens at the mouths of Sirion. He clenches his fists in impotence, watching the devastation wrought there by the murderous sons of Fëanor. “Peace, Huorion,” I warn him, ”your time is long past. You are no longer a warrior, but the strangest riddle to the Valar. ”Not to the One,” I add to myself, “for he knows your heart and your mind, and that is why you and I meet here at last.”

“Where is our son, Eärendil? Why did Círdan and Ereinion suffered this to happen?” she cries. They are unfamiliar with the fate of their child, I understand, so I weave the tale back to short after their departure, to a time when Sirion still bloomed under the blessing of the jewel, to the day when Eärendil took Elwing as wife,  and soon later, when they welcomed their children. 

“Twins!” she whispers in awe. 

While they grieve for their family and the destruction of the beautiful refuge at the mouths of Sirion, the War of Wrath rages before our eyes.The dragon’s mighty fall smites ruin upon Thangorodrim. The mountain’s tall peaks tumble down in a powerful crash. The earth convulses, the seas rebel, a huge wave swells from the depths, Ossë’s fury is unleashed, unhampered for once... Beleriand disappears under the waters and I feel the pain of its loss anew. 

They watch stunned, speechless, their hands entwined, observing. She sighs at last.

“So our son is now a star, and he is carrying one of Fëanor’s Silmarils?” She sounds amused at the mere thought.

“He is, indeed. The remaining jewels, too, have found their resting place,” I add, pointing as the vision shows the bright light of Maglor’s Silmaril cross briefly the summer skies and fall into the depths of Ulmo’s realm.

“That is a beautiful ship, most assuredly framed and ribbed in Nimbrethil white birch for speed and lightness,” the Huorion muses aloud, still appreciating his son’s long-limbed and lightly rigged vessel in his mind’s eye. “And was that Elwing who came out of the waves as a bird, carrying the jewel? It would appear that Ulmo did have his say in the end!” His bright smile takes the sting off the subtle jab; I nod and bow to his perceptiveness.

“Others with a greater claim,” Idril muses upon my earlier words. “Did Elwing make it to the Blessed Realm as well, then?”

“The light of the Silmaril sailed them home, whence it came,” I say. “Their sorrowful plea on behalf of the two kindred and the direness of the Children’s plight moved the Powers to act at last. As for the messengers, they are now tied to the Silmaril’s fate by their own choice, keeping watch over the Walls of the World until Arda is remade.”

They ponder my words in silence.

“And what of their children?” She sounds stern and protective. When they awoke they knew not of their existence, now all of a sudden they fret over the fate of those two children they never met. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the Children bestow their affections, even the Firstborn, who are tied to Arda themselves and supposed to endure their losses while it lasts.

A vision of the great fleet of the Edain sailing to their Valar-appointed new home in the Land of Gift fills our horizon now. One of the half-elves stands proud on the tallest ship, following his father’s guiding light, while the other watches from the dock, mighty among those who chose to remain upon those distant shores, to fight darkness relentlessly, hopelessly.

“Choices were presented to the Half-Elves, same as to their parents; to pass beyond the circles of the world or to join in the fate of Ilúvatar’s Firstborn. Each settled upon their own favoured heritage,” I tell them. “But worry not, for it is written that their lines will not be sundered forever but rather mingle again down the ages, by Eru’s design, and come together to play a large part in the good that is yet to come.”

They nod in acceptance of this fateful news. She makes as if to speak, heaves an anguished sigh. Overcome by an all-consuming grief, she tightens her hold on her husband, for whom she fears. I cannot imagine the dread a separation beyond the circles of the world inspires in these two, one of the Firstborn born in the Undying Lands and a child of Men raised by Elves and touched by the meddling of a Vala.

He hugs her again, comforting, and stands up slowly, deliberately, as if to add gravity and weight to his speech.

“I well knew the price a mortal who dared set foot in Aman would have to pay when I set sail from Beleriand,” he says, and his voice carries the grief of a life of toils. Hearing this, she climbs nimbly to her feet by his side, grabs his arm and stares at me in defiance, dares me to try and tear them apart. “But she is of the Eldar, lord, and you say that their banishment has been lifted...” he continues, his voice softer, entreating. “Will you not grant her the same forbearance your brethren extended to the Eldar in Beleriand? Will she be allowed back in the lands of her kin, as our son was?”

She now drops his arm and steps before him; protective, fierce. It is an endearing reversal of his earlier stance.

“This is not the Blessed Realm and he is not one of the Powers who banished us!” she reminds him, and her voice is steady and grave. She turns to me. “Who are you, lord, who claims to be sent here to guide Tuor, befriended by Ulmo, to his fate? And what fate would this be?”

She is far wiser than her father was, this daughter of Turgon, and she sees through me with the keenest eyesight. She knows that I am but a messenger sent to deliver judgement; though whose, she can not yet fathom. I nod to her.

“I am Aluin, Lord of Time, the eldest and most powerful of the Ainur,” I pronounce.  “I sat behind Eru since the beginning and watched as his mind unfolded visions of what was to be. I was there when he spoke Eä into being. I was there when he displayed the vision in his Music. I was there when he sent the Valar here to bring his vision into existence, watched as they toiled and struggled against Melkor, fearing  the vision would be ruined even before it came into being…Only after Melkor attacked the Undying Lands did I enter Arda. It was at the behest of the King of Arda that I fenced Aman against evil… but also against the Eldar who forsook Aman.”

“The ships!” she gasps in dismay.

I sigh and bow my head. Foolish king, who sent innocents in a hopeless quest. “Whatever madness possessed your father to believe that the Valar would open their lands to his ships I cannot imagine, Idril Celebrindal, but then the Children’s ultimate purpose -and most of their actions- have always been a mystery for us. I was sent to protect the blessed shores, to see that no one would ever again find passage unbidden until Arda remade.”

They remain unmoved by my words, who surely had made peace with whichever fate might befall them before setting sail together. What persuaded them to do so, I marvel, being well aware of the weight of the ban still set against them, aware that a separation beyond the circles of the world would be their most likely fate? And yet forth they sailed, willing to spend their last years together lost at sea, chasing a dubious passage into the Blessed Realm to beg for their kin. Such love and devotion has rarely been seen among mortals or Firstborn -only once before, and she pleaded for her loved one. Perhaps that is why this one is considered deserving of such high reward.

“These are the Enchanted Isles, which protect Aman from intruders,” I explain, pointing to the swirling mists that look like towers from a distance. “Here, time is stopped and withheld; those who sail here were doomed to remain in the timeless void, since it was the will of the One that no one was to set foot in Valinor before your son. Now, Eärendil’s appeal succeeded, the ban was lifted, and Valinor is open for the Firstborn, even those who once tried to sail there against the prohibition…Even to you, daughter of Turgon.”

She nods briefly in acknowledgement, yet silent and expectant they remain.

“Also the time has come for you to choose, Tuor son of Huor,” I proclaim at last. “For so it was decreed that you, who so toiled and suffered for love of the Eldar, should be granted safe passage into the Blessed Realm, to be numbered among the elder race and share in their fate, should you so desire.”

They remain in joy as composed as they were in sorrow and dread. They strengthen their hold on each other, but their smiles grow so full of light that for a moment I believe Yavanna's Trees have been rekindled. He turns his keen mortal eyes to me and nods in quiet understanding.

“All my lineage was devoted to serve the designs of the One, as I now understand it,” he says, and the powerful voice that brought fear to his enemies echoes soft and deep in the void. “It seems to me that my life was never mine on the first place, except in that moment in which I could have refused to follow the call that led me here. Even though the Wise know not the fate of the two kindred, my heart tells me that we may all yet one day reunite beyond the circles of the world after Arda is remade. Until such time comes, I choose the fate of the Firstborn, by the grace of the One.”

I bow before him. “You are wise, Huorion, and great amongst Eldar and Edain alike. Your heart speaks truly. Let the love that you bear for the Eldar be rewarded at last, while Arda endures.”

A wave of my hand, and the piling clouds that would resemble pearl towers to befuddled mariners start to lift, revealing what is hidden in plain sight: long white sandbars strewn with scattered remains of the swift ships and the bodies of Turgon’s lost crews. “They are asleep,” I say to ease their anguish, “trapped here outside time while Valinor remained closed to the Eldar. Awake now, Children!” I cry, raising my voice, “for your time has come!”

They stir and stand slowly, looking around in bewilderment. One of them recognizes Idril and soon they all flock to their king’s daughter to greet her in awe and gratitude, their clear voices ringing in excitement and joy like a flock of startled seagulls chasing a school of fish.

While she appraises them of the news, I devote myself to the task at hand. Another gesture and I bend and rearrange Time: mighty Eärrámë first, restored to its full splendour and sea-readiness. The Huorion stands behind me, watching. “Never have I seen a more beautiful ship before,” I praise him, and he smiles again, the sea-love clear in him. “Though it would appear from your words that your son’s Vingilot is something worth of praise as well.” My hands work as I speak, and soon the swift ketches Turgon once had built in Balar and the Falas are also ready for the last leg of their journey, a worthy escort for Eärrámë though they will not be allowed beyond Tol Eressea.

“Will you sail with us, lord?” he asks in earnest. “Since your duty here is done, I would be honored to carry you home to your kin.”

I cast a look around. The voices of the Quendi are still as beautiful and haunting as when Oromë first heard them, singing under Elbereth’s stars when the world was young. It is all clear in my mind: what was, what is and what will be are one and the very same to me, who sat beside Eru and saw the world come into being and to its end in one breath. Yet not for the first time I feel a tinge of regret not to be a part of this Arda, marred though it is.

“I will not sail to Valinor, Huorion,” I sigh, “not until the very last thread of the One’s vision has run its course, and his purpose is fulfilled, and Arda is remade. You can send my regards to the King of Arda, though, and remind him that Time is the gift of Eru to Powers and Children alike, the Beginning and the End.” He bows in acquiescence. I know that my brother will understand, even if the messenger does not.

The time has come. I raise my voice again, so it reaches the scores of the the Quendi who had lain asleep for ennin on my shores, that their fears are assuaged.  “Worry not! The ban that the Valar set against you is lifted at last, and the way to the Undying Lands is now open. Námo will know who sent you. Sail in peace, Children, with the gratitude of those on whose behalf you risked everything to sail West. Your journey ends there at last.”

Their boats are ready and they board in awed silence, busying themselves with rigging and canvas and rudder, reassuring themselves with familiar tasks. Turgon’s daughter walks up and bows before me.

“There are not words enough in the languages of the Quendi or the Valar..” she begins. I interrupt her.

“No theme may be played that hath not it uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite, Ilúvatar said after Melko rebelled,” I tell them. “Had Tuor failed to follow Ulmo’s guidance, the will of the One would have found a different way to achieve its fulfillment, for his vision will not be denied. Do not thank me Idril Celebrindal, but enjoy what the Music has in store for you.”

I watch them depart, hand in hand. Eärrámë sails on smoothly, escorted by the fleet of smaller vessels and their eager crews. I cannot help a surge of renewed joy, as every time I see one of Eru’s visions reach its completion in unexpected ways and beyond despair.

I raise my hand for the last time and call up a sweet wind that will rush them into the blessed shores -they have tarried enough. That very same wind dispels the visible reminders of the Isles of Twilight, invisible but for the chosen. As I, too, dissolve in the mists out of time, I hear a soft whisper that echoes in the wings of my wind.

“They are home,” Manwë says. I can now rest at peace, until the tides of Time are called upon to bring in the appointed end.

-The End.

 A/N Aluin the Lord of Time is mentioned in The Book of Lost Tales chapter IX “The Darkening of Valinor.” He came into Arda after the Noldor left Valinor, and he introduced Time in the Blessed Realm, causing all things there to be subjected to decay and fading, though slow.

The title comes from a line in ”Of Tuor and his Coming to Gondolin” in the Unifinished Tales. It describes how the sea-longing awoke in Tuor when he first saw the Belegaer in the shores of Nevrast.

There is no mention anywhere that Tuor took on this errand upon himself but it makes sense, and alsoties in loosely with my previous vignette " Beauty Pierces Through."