Chapter 47. Thorn: Battle Ahead

Upon the arrival of Gondor's forces, Círdan had sent messengers in all directions to call upon all who would come in response to his summons to assemble in Lindon. Next, the Lord of Lindon set in motion the planning needed for the effort to dislodge and banish the evil that Angmar had brought upon the Northlands, including all the details of logistics, training and troop movements. As a matter of course, Prince Eärnur of Gondor, sent by his father King Eärnil, played a major role in the planning sessions, along with the Captains of Gondor under his command, and the proud princes of Rhovanion who had also sailed with the vast fleet from Gondor, comprising more ships than both Northern harbours together could hold. Arvedui's surviving sons also attended the planning sessions but had relatively little to say.

While Círdan never seemed hurried or pressed for time, many of the Men now gathered inside the borders of Lindon whispered that the Elf-lord could appear anywhere and at any time – and often did. To their eyes, the renowned Elf appeared as ancient and venerable as he was rumoured to be, having seen many lifetimes of Men. 

At the moment, the Shipwright was enjoying a rare respite, walking along the rocky shore perhaps a mile from the bustle of Men, Elves and horses at the Havens and looking out over the Gulf of Lhûn. If "enjoying" could be considered the proper term, he thought. With the battle looming, he felt as if he must draw as much strength as possible from the nearby Sea before his departure with the Army of the West on the morrow put increasing leagues between them.

As his ears drank in the calls of seabirds winging over the waters, he breathed deeply of the salt air and felt renewed by the clean, sharp freshness blowing over the land from the Sea. Away from the tumult of the mighty Army that was gathering, he hoped to find clear direction and freedom from distraction as he considered the course ahead of them.

Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, along with Galadriel and Celeborn, remained seemingly beyond Círdan's reach, even in this quiet moment in the relative stillness of the shoreline, well away from the busy harbour. As his mind quested far from where his body stood, the Shipwright frowned in puzzlement – no, the feeling was stronger than mere puzzlement. The silence of the Wise disturbed him, arousing a strong feeling of foreboding. Not even an echo of the Istari came in answer to his mental appeal. Despite his strong feeling that the fate of many hung in the balance, the Powers beyond, Unseen yet ever-present in his consciousness, felt distant, strangely dimmed in his perception.

Was this some foul trick of the Enemy? Or was it a test of some sort? Though he'd been given foresight surpassing that of any of the Elves, at the moment, he felt as blind as one who has had a bag thrown over his head.

Whatever the cause of the fog in his mind and the related isolation he was experiencing, he was unmistakeably on his own. Were he not one of the Firstborn who'd seen the Light of the Trees, he might have felt himself cast adrift without guidance, yet fated to measure himself against the representative of an evil that was even more ancient than himself, a malevolence that held immense power compared to that the Shipwright might wield. Granted, Angmar had drawn back from crossing the Lune after completing the destruction of Arnor, but how much longer would Círdan's power be enough to hold back the dark forces from defying the protection he wielded over the land and crossing into Lindon?

Hide and die, something had whispered deep inside when the first refugees from the fall of Arthedain had appeared on the eastern banks of the Lune. Or see to the forming of a new Alliance and resist the darkness! The Elves of Lindon had supported the Men of Arnor against the schemes of the Witch-lord for centuries, yet the Northern Kingdom had fallen at last. In his heart, the Shipwright knew the Witch-lord would not be content to rest after this latest conquest. Their Master's malice drove the servants of the Enemy like a constant, devouring hunger that knew no end.

The arrival of Gondor had been a sign of sorts, confirmation that the Elves could not merely withdraw into their own lands. It was not enough to avoid the ever-arising conflicts between Men and their kingdoms, as Círdan knew all too well. In a past Age, he and his people had been driven into the Sea, and he would do well to remember that desperate time.

But the responsibility weighed heavily on Círdan's shoulders, making him feel as old as his outward appearance suggested to the Men around him. For long years, I have chosen to be a builder and not a destroyer. For a few moments, his mind pleasantly drifted and dwelt on the memories of building the fair ship Vingilot with young Eärendil. But that choice must be set aside for now, it seems. How to proceed? He cleared his mind of all distraction and waited, but no hint of guidance came save the cries of the seabirds, gliding on the wind and diving upon the waves, where the Sun occasionally caught the flash of silver scales near the surface of the water. Far out on the surface of the water, he could see seals resting on their backs above the kelp forest which had its roots in the rocky bottom of the bay.

See how the sea life lives and works together in harmony to form a whole, the thought came unbidden. And so Círdan turned his thoughts to the new Alliance that was making ready to march to war. He knew his own people well, had fought alongside many of them in other conflicts not of his choosing over the centuries. He had marched with that other Alliance of Men and Elves, the Last Alliance – O the irony! – a vastly mightier force than this one, that had seemed to have victory within its grasp – and yes, Isildur had struck down the Dark Lord and taken his Ring... but in the end, despite all the arguments that Círdan and Elrond could bring to bear, the Man had not destroyed It.

And the losses had been almost more than the Shipwright could bear. Círdan bowed his head, remembering a young and promising Gil-galad, grown tall and proclaimed High King. He had stood valiant and unyielding against the terror and power that Sauron wielded, but in the end, his life had been thrown away, in the light of Isildur's pride and downfall.

But that is neither here nor there, Círdan told himself fiercely. He wiped at his eyes and raised his head once more, staring over the Bay and considering the tools he had to work with in his present conundrum. 

The Men brought by Gondor's fleet looked to Prince Eärnur as their Commander. For his part, Eärnur would gladly have assumed the leadership of the Alliance Círdan had gathered within the borders of Lindon. In the early days after the fleet's arrival, Círdan had weighed the advantages and disadvantages of turning command of the Western forces over to the Southerner. From his observations and interactions with the young Prince of Gondor, the Shipwright deemed the Man had boldness and courage to spare; unfortunately, however, he lacked the leavening of wisdom. It had not taken the ancient Elf-lord long to discern the Man's hot temper and impulsive nature. Unbidden rose the memory of Oropher's disastrous rush into battle ahead of Gil-galad's signal to charge. No, Círdan would not risk a similar outcome by ceding leadership to an impetuous, short-sighted Man.

As for the Northern Dúnedain... The remnant of Arthedain had scattered throughout the land of Lindon after escaping the wrath of the Witch-lord; yet most had not settled, as refugees in a new land, but had grimly awaited a summons, whether from Círdan or some other lord of the Northlands. The Men who had survived the sacking of Arthedain could find neither rest nor peace in the refuge that Lindon currently provided. Before their eyes, despite their valour and acts fuelled by desperation and courage, the North Kingdom had fallen in flame and horror, and few – including the sons of Arvedui who yet lived – could conceive of a future or a hope. Círdan suspected that the surviving warriors envisioned little more than driving Angmar from the land, avenging the slaughter and ruin the Witch-lord's forces had wrought while possibly finding some kind of redemption – or at least rest and an end to striving – in laying down their lives to cleanse the land that had once been their home. 

The North Kingdom was gone, along with her King. Arvedui's heir had refused to accept the crown after word had come of the last-King's death, making the Man "last King" in truth and not only in name. In contrast to the bright, brave, laughing Prince of Gondor, who so clearly was eagerly anticipating the coming clash, Aranarth seemed to walk the earth shrouded in a fog of gloom. This son of Arvedui had no visions of regaining a kingdom but, rather, seemed resigned to dying in battle as a way to atone for his father's failure to hold fast against the pressures of Angmar.

Once more the ancient Elf-lord bitterly grieved the loss of Gil-galad. Even this diminished Alliance, marching with the High King before them... But Círdan shook his head. Just as victory had proved elusive in the past despite Gil-galad's inspiring presence and inspired leadership, the upcoming battle did not – could not – rest upon the commander, whether Man or Elf. Círdan himself included, whether he might live through the battle or gave up his life in the effort to come.

Lastly came Hobbits to mind. Unconsciously, the Elf-lord smiled at this belated recollection. Halfings were easy to overlook; had they not lived quietly for untold years beneath the notice of the Wise and the Dark Power alike? Though Círdan dedicated a few precious moments to deep thought on the matter, pondering the Little People's origins and prospects, he had to shake his head in the end. For all he knew, their ancestors might have sprung up like flowers in the Vales of the Anduin earlier in this Age – or in a previous one. Bucca was small of stature and unassuming in manner, and yet Círdan had discerned unforeseen depths as his understanding of the hobbit had grown, while his People's future remained unknown and unknowable, even to one with the Elf-lord's gift of foresight. They may surprise us yet, he thought.

By the time Círdan had come to the conclusion that he must, himself, lead the Alliance as a whole, the Sun had passed overhead on her journey to the Western horizon, peeping playfully through the scudding clouds over the Sea that lay beyond the Bay. As the Shipwright lifted his head for a final deep breath of the freshening wind before turning to make his way back to the harbour, his eyes were dazzled by a flash of blinding light. The foresight he'd been granted suddenly poured into his mind, as if a dam had held back the flow of thought and prescience. All too briefly, he saw clearly – before a barrier slammed into place once more, cutting off the vision like a door closing and leaving the room in darkness.

But in that brief instant, he'd seen enough. He silently lifted his eyes to the West and thanked the Powers for the warning and the wisdom that had sprung forth in response.

He was not alone, as it turned out, but he also knew now that this struggle was not a local matter, affecting only the Northern lands. Somehow, the fate of all Middle-earth, though it might not be determined for centuries yet to come, hung on the outcome.

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Author's note:

Some descriptions in this chapter were drawn from the Tolkien Gateway and Encyclopedia of Arda websites, as well as The Peoples of Middle-earth by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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