In last chapter... Right after breakfast, Ereinion managed to empty his tent by setting different tasks upon his unruly visitors, and finally met with his king. 

7. Flying words.

In which Círdan wonders about his foster son’s lack of subtlety, Celeborn tires of words and Oropher delves in dwarven treasures.

“Take this, you don’t want to run the risk of verifying the accuracy of that legend…”

The young king of the Noldor managed a wan smile as he lifted his head from its resting place upon his knees. He took the proffered leather strap and tied back the unruly raven locks that whipped at his tear-streaked face.

“Is it true, then?” he asked in a hoarse voice, as the Shipwright took a seat by his side upon the exposed rock.

“Who knows?" Círdan answered with his customary grumpiness, fixing his gaze on the slightly ruffled sea, watching it become on fire by the proximity of sunset.

Círdan was a wise elf, the most ancient of those who still dwelled in Middle Earth, and had learned long ago that everything would come to its appointed end, sooner or later. He had seen his own world founder when his eagerness to reach the Blessed Realm was hindered by Ulmo’s designs.

He had stood upon a cliff for years uncounted, alone, facing the sea, praying to the Lord of Waters for mercy, until he came to accept that his fate was to remain in Middle Earth. As the legend had it among the Teleri, his silvery hair, tired of floating unheeded in the relentless winds, had stuck to his fair face and had started growing there, encouraged by the endless tears of the stranded and anguished Elf.

When he had finally returned to his people, bearded as the strangest creature yet to be born, he had been shrouded in an inner calm and an air of confidence that had never since deserted him; the certainty of one who has seen the end of all things and has beheld the uttermost hope beyond it. (1)

“I heard about your stallion,” he added after a short time in his low, harsh speech. "I’m sorry, lad," he offered, patting the youngster's shoulder clumsily. The stable master's report had prompted Círdan to go in search of his charge, an easy task, since the young king had shown a penchant for heights since very early in his life.

"He saved my life thrice..." Ereinion sighed in a cracked voice. And I failed to save his, as well as many others’. The unsaid words hung between them in the evening’s breeze, and Círdan could do nothing but pressing comfortingly upon the bony shoulder and hoping that he would find the strength to overcome the guilt, as he always did.

“How was the rest of your day?” the young king asked after another stretch of companionable silence, in a steadier voice.

“Not bad.” Círdan leaned to rest his back upon a rock. “Let me inform you, my King, that we have been invaded…” he added in his offhanded way.

“Olvárin's people, I know,”

“Do you?”

“Why, I noticed…”

“Shrewd boy...”

“I learnt from the best...”

“Now you’re being impertinent...”

“Never meant to, my lord…. Shall I take it, then, that Olvárin overcame his anger? I knew of your diplomatic skills, but this surpasses every other deed, let me tell you!”

“You would know! No, I wouldn’t say that much. Let’s better say that... given that their prince had disembarked… the rest of his crews understood that they were to follow…Have I ever told you that groaning is unbecoming in a king?” he added at the dismayed sounds coming from Ereinion.

“Is that good or bad? What about Olvárin?

“To your first question, I’m not all that sure. They’re like a plague, swarming everywhere. I sent some to our shipyards, maybe they can teach Elros the difference between timber and good wood to which you’ll entrust your crew’s safety on a long sail...”

Ereinion could not hold back a smile at Círdan’s ranting. There were few issues that managed to unsettle the shipwright, and that was one of those.

“As of Olvárin…well, provided he survives the unduly harsh punishment you delivered to him, I am sure he’ll be too bored to attempt murdering Elros for a second time… What are you laughing about, young one?”

“I’d have loved to see Olvárin’s face as Ingil explained his family tree to him…did you know that Ingil always carries along parchment and quill?“

“Does he?” Círdan’s hairy brows attempted escape.

“Why, yes! I saw him upon the field! He would take out his writing stuff and start putting down or drawing everything that struck him as new!"

“He must have needed a whole army to carry his designs, then."

“You’re being sarcastic, my lord Shipwright.”

“Sarcastic? Why, one would be tempted to say they have nothing in Valinor by the way he looks at everything… It’s surprising he didn’t manage to get himself killed…”

“You saw today how fast he is… so, why was Olvárin that enraged?”

“Oh!” Círdan extended his long legs and sighed, fighting to control his mirth. “As Elros said, they, I mean, he and two or three of his dim-witted men, took a boat and sailed very close to Olvárin’s fleet. The mast of their boat “caught” fire, somehow, and it started burning with a black smoke, undoubtedly fanned by their clumsy efforts to put it out by throwing more flammable substances at it….”

Círdan stopped his account to settle down his long beard, which was flying uncomfortably in the eastern wind, flapping against Ereinion’s face, who knew better than to complain. Satisfied with his foster son’s stoicism, Círdan continued his tale placidly.

“Chance had it that they were sailing all too close to Olvárin’s ship when they started crying something along the lines of “Fire, the ship’s on fire!”. You were there, it was your tent they almost flooded, so you can guess what Olvárin and Celeborn, and Olvárin’s crew, did next. Do you find this amusing, young one?” he added sternly, fixing Ereinion with a glare his foster son knew only too well, as he tried to stifle an undignified chuckle.

“No my lord, I don’t; now half the camp thinks that I ordered that silliness…”

“I don’t think so. It was too clumsy, even for your standards...”

“My thanks, Lord Círdan, your support is comforting, as always…”

Despite the mild, affectionate irony, Círdan needed not see the grateful look in the grey eyes to know that the young one was actually feeling reassured. They understood each other, and they had grown to appreciate, why, love, each other through the years. Detached bantering was the best way to uplift the king’s spirits, Círdan had discovered long ago.

Anyway, Círdan wouldn’t spoil the king’s amused smile by asking him why Olvárin had thought that he had ordered that silliness on the first place. He had heard the story and had felt deeply for his charge. Ereinion was used to it, after all, Círdan thought ruthlessly, although it had been some time now since someone had last blamed the young Noldo for his father’s misdeed.

“So, how was your meeting with Finarfin?”

“Oh.”

Círdan feared that tone.

“As expected, I suppose. At least... I didn’t embarrass myself more than usual...” Ereinion answered at last.

“Did you call him Golodh? Stone–eater?”

“No…”

“You’re learning, then,” Círdan patted him reassuringly. “Now, tell me how it went...”

“Mmm…first, I told him that…I would disobey his orders again if the chance presented itself…No, wait! I told him that I acknowledged him as my High King, but that I had sworn to protect and serve all elves, I mean, you know that, Círdan, there were more than Noldorin subjects in Balar and Sirion when I became High King, whatever it is that it means,“ he added with hardly disguised bitterness. “So,” he kept on, forcing his tone to neutrality,” I told him that I knowingly disobeyed him for the well-being of my people.“

“And...”

“Well, he seemed to accept it, although, now that I come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t have started by saying that I would disobey him again…”

“It might have helped your case, yes, if you hadn’t...” Círdan agreed.

“Then, I told him that… I... would grant his daughter any position she might desire, but that I would never defer the kingship to her... are you feeling well, Círdan?”

“Yes. Why on Arda did you say that?” the mariner had almost choked and was fighting to recover his breath.

“Oh…” the young king sounded a bit ashamed. “Celebrimbor feared…he told me that she might... Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway…”

“I see.” Círdan was beginning to understand some of the subtle signs he had glimpsed back in Ereinion’s tent. Last night’s conversation must have been tense, he thought.

“Well, the King choked, too. I told him that, unfit as he might find me for the kingship, I intended to fulfil my duty to all those I had sworn to protect to the bitter end.”

“Well said, lad! What did he do, then?”

“Mmm, first, he drank a long draught, and then he did that waving thing with his hand… why didn’t you teach me that, Círdan?”

“What did he say, Ereinion!” Círdan’s thin patience was apparently reaching its end. He's spending too much time around Ingil, it seems! he thought in exasperation.

“Oh! He said that he would like to have me back, for my grandmother’s sake, (2) and that he would also have his daughter back, even if that meant that the would have to drag along her stiff-necked husband, because his wife would be distraught to learn that none of their five children would return to them, but that he respected our decision…I pitied him, then,” he added softly.

Círdan smiled inwardly. He credited Ereinion’s bloodline for his traits, but he relished seeing how he had helped such good qualities evolve. His great heart was one of those things the shipwright was very proud of.

“And then… the conversation ended… somehow...abruptly… I fear...” His tactlessness and lack of subtlety, on the other side, Círdan wasn’t entirely sure whom to credit for.

“What happened?” he asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“It wasn’t my fault, Círdan!”

Offering excuses in advance wasn’t a good sign. Círdan groaned. “What happened…”

“I just…reminded him…”

“Celebrimbor.” Círdan said flatly. “Ereinion...”

“Just let me explain! He said that her daughter and I, and the Peredhil, were the only remaining members of his departed family and I told him that there was another… Well, he blanched; he stood up, pierced me with that blazing glare of his and stormed out…” he added in dismay.

“I’m not going to ask you why you support Celebrimbor with such vehemence. Just be careful, Ereinion.”

“He’s one of my closest kin, Círdan. And he’s being constantly shunned. The Fëanorians distrust him, the Doriathrim would have his head, and even the survivors of Sirion suspect him for he was in Balar when Maedhros attacked. He’s not the easiest of elves to get along with, but I know how he feels, and it is my duty to support him.”

“He was a kinslayer on the first place, Ereinion, do not forget that...”

“So was my father.” The stubbornness of Finwë’s line was there, in the small frown between his eyes. “And you granted him forgiveness and offered him your friendship…”

“Yes," Círdan sighed after a moment in which both locked eyes. “And see how I’m rewarded,“ he added provokingly, standing up and extending his hand to pull the young king up along. “It’ll take us about ten sun-rounds to build that fleet, by the way…” he added in an offhanded way.

“My lord?”

“You have ten sun-rounds to make a good king of Elros.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you’re the elf best suited for the job, lad, let’s go back,” he added, smiling at the pleased look upon his foster son’s face. Things wouldn’t be easy, Círdan thought, carefully stepping down the rocky cliff, but Ereinion would certainly do his best, and he would make sure that was more than enough.

***

“A word with you, Celeborn?”

Another? Celeborn thought wearily, rolling up the parchments and clearing the desk. He had endured more words than he had expected, that day. Oropher and the Dwarf-lord had started bickering like two old crows quarrelling over an unattainable prize the moment they entered Celeborn’s tent, and had not stopped fighting as he changed his soaked garments, and during the tiresome discussion.

Despite Oropher’s efforts, the conversation had ended up being useful, he thought as he put aside the maps they had come to draft and the various notes about the lands to the east.

“I must meet Ereinion now, I promised to brief him on the agreements.” Celeborn was not sure whether to be thankful or resentful towards the king for tricking him into that meeting, but he did not intend to neglect his duty in any case.

“No, wait!” Oropher grabbed his arm. “You cannot!”

“Why?” Celeborn freed himself from his friend’s grasp, put the parchments and maps under his arm and opened the tent flap. Oropher followed after reluctantly.

“Celeborn, trust me… they are cheating us...” he added in a soft whisper, looking around as if fearing prying ears.

“Cheating us? Who?” Celeborn had to step aside due to an unusually intense flow of people in camp. “What’s going on?” he asked to nobody in particular.

“You noticed, too? They seem familiar to me…” Oropher said, his voice turning ominous.

Celeborn looked around in wonder, studying the swarming crowds that seemed to flood the camp. Some silver heads served to dispel his concerns, though.

“Oh, I see,“ he smiled, “those are Olvárin’s people, they'd have disembarked, eventually...”

“Wise decision, “ Oropher said gloomily, “they might have been burnt alive by his orders…”

“Ereinion’s?” Celeborn’s brows raised almost on their own accord. “I don’t think so...” he started slowly.

“Why!“ Oropher was incensed. “You heard Olvárin. You surely don’t mean he was lying….”

Celeborn sighed. He remembered well Olvárin's harsh words that morning at the quay, and Ereinion’s hurt expression, but he seriously doubted that the Noldo had come to order that.

“Besides, his father was one of those who did it before, wasn’t he? He was just following his example…” Oropher added angrily.

“Oh, yes!” Celeborn’s patience was growing thin. “Everybody knows the tale, Oropher, Fingon burnt his own ship at Alqualondë and then crossed the ice on foot with his kin...” he said with undisguised sarcasm.

“Why that doesn’t surprise me?” Oropher said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t he too, that dumb one who went alone and unaided to Thangorodrim and challenged Morgoth into single combat over that handless, bloody Fëanorian? Wait, how did it go? he survived, didn’t he?”

“To the point, Oropher,“ Celeborn refrained from enlightening his friend on Noldorin history with a suffering sigh.

“The point is that the boy king and the dwarf are holding out on us, and they now know what you know, but we do not know what they know. I have my sources, Celeborn,” he added hurriedly before Celeborn could express his scepticism other than raising his brows, “and I know for sure that the Dwarf-lord has maps of secret elven realms to the East and that he, together with Brith-Galad are plotting to overcome them and put the Peredhel in charge... well, this I guess,” he added honestly, “but since he allowed me to be present in the talks with the Dwarf, it is clear that he did not expect anything significant to be revealed… All I need is a bit more time, Celeborn, don’t go to your king now...”

“He’s not my king!” Celeborn answered before thinking.

“Then, help your people, my friend. Give me time to find out...”

Celeborn had the feeling that he was being manoeuvred. On the other hand, though, he truly trusted Oropher’s judgement.

“What are you asking of me?” he said warily, dodging another bunch of overexcited, roaming Teleri mariners.

When Oropher ended his explanations, they were almost before the Dwarf’s tent and he had no way of escaping his friend’s masterfully laid trap, as the Dwarf-lord exited it with his proud stance, looking every inch as smug as…a dwarf who’s cheating Sindarin elves, Celeborn had to admit to himself, his suspicions raising a point or two.

“I thought you were to meet with your king now, Lord Celeborn” the dwarf observed in a not wholly unpleasant way.

He’s. Not. My. King. Celeborn thought in sharp Cirth as he composed a mild smile. “I was, Lord Gundaghâl, but there are some things I’d like to verify with you, first, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you for a while… where are you heading?” he asked conversationally, winking at Oropher, who bowed low and walked away.

****

Finarfin's incensed pacing had taken him, not wholly unexpectedly, to the place he had been avoiding since he had left Ereinion’s tent in an unusual show of bad temper that morning after the eventful council. He had tried to distract himself, checking with his troop commanders about the supplies for the return trip and the advances made in identifying names and family lines of those of Noldorin descent travelling to Eressëa.

Many of those sailing had relatives in Valinor, and Finarfin knew all too well that a grandchild or a great-grandchild would be a more than welcome surprise for grieving families who would be seeing few of the loved ones that had followed Fingolfin’s host returning. (3)

The thought had burnt upon his mind as he considered his own mother, his wife, and his brother’s wife’s bereavement.

Ereinion’s words stung him again.

And he remembered then Nerdanel’s sad, resigned face the last time he had seen her, as she watched the Silmaril on Eärendil’s ship, a mixture of relief, revulsion and unbearable longing upon her deep eyes.

With a sharp order to accelerate the proceedings he left his tent and went for a walk, in an attempt to calm his reeling thoughts and find the right course of action.

The sight of Ingil trying to put a semblance of order in the Telerin crews’ unruly invasion of the huge camp made him smile. My mother wouldn’t forgive me were I to leave Ingil behind, he thought amusedly, walking deeper into the forest to avoid the turmoil in the busy camp.

And now he was where he had sworn not to set foot, in the fëanorian corner of that mixed encampment. Finarfin entered the silent area with a scowl, as a banner carrying Fëanaro’s fiery seal rippled smoothly over his head. He could not avoid a reluctant satisfaction, though, at the sight of a well-ordered and rationally arranged camp.

There were milestones at the crossings, with clearly identified signals leading to the different areas. Workshops were built on stone and set apart from the residential areas to avoid fumes spreading towards the place where tents and cabins stood. Wellstones were carefully carved, and ditches and channels carried clear, fresh water to every corner of that neat camp. Despite all his misgivings, Finarfin’s Noldorin mind felt almost at home at that familiar sight. He easily found his way towards the hugest workshop; the one he guessed would be Celebrimbor’s.

Without knocking, he pushed open the wooden door, and could not hold back a surprised gasp at the sight that greeted him.

Six pairs of blazing eyes returned his amazed stare as six pairs of hands fought clumsily to hide what could not be hidden from the High King’s discerning gaze.

As he got used to the dim light inside the workshop, Finarfin took in other details, and finally let his eyes rest on the face of the tallest of the six.

“A word with you, Lord Celebrimbor,” he said sternly, turning his back and stepping outside to the light of the sun and the gentle breeze.

“My lord,” a tense if beautiful voice shook him from his contemplation, “I can explain…” Finarfin waved him into silence curtly and nodded to a clean path that wounded its way towards the forest and away from the workshops. They walked in silence for a while and then Finarfin stopped and turned to face Celebrimbor. He stared into fiery eyes that met his unwaveringly, and took in the pain, the remorse, the uncertainty, but also the pride and ruthless determination that were the mark of his lineage.

“I…I assume that you don’t intend to return to Eressëa...” he said sternly. Celebrimbor didn’t move or acknowledge his words.

Finarfin sighed, trying to control his exasperation. “If you want my opinion, it is a wise decision,” he added.

“Because it saves you many problems?” Celebrimbor could not hold back his tongue, his mouth twisting in a contemptuous smirk as he added, “my lord?” in a clearly mocking tone.

“Because it gives you the chance to redeem yourself beyond the Valar’s granted and wholly undeserved forgiveness, you spoiled runt of a bad excuse for his father’s talents!” Finarfin’s unexpected fit of temper shocked Celebrimbor in place and made him blush as he bowed his head.

“You have a grandmother and a mother that will be glad to learn that you’re alive but shall feel better for the fact that you remain here, and pledge to serve your king loyally and lay your life down for him should the need arise, to atone for your misdeeds and for those of your father!” Finarfin wondered that his voice sounded firm as he finally managed to hint at Curufin and Celegorm’s traitorous deed, the actual reason why he had been shunning Celebrimbor. “Am I clear?”

“You are, my lord,” Celebrimbor’s voice was little more than a whisper, and this time he could not meet the blazing eyes of the enraged and grieving king.

Finarfin fixed him in his glare until he felt he could manage his breathing and calm his temper. “I’ll be glad to carry back messages and presents, if you have some that you want consigned to your family, Celebrimbor…”

“Will you…deliver them, my lord?” the  fëanorian asked faintly.

Finarfin exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. “I cannot promise, nephew,” he said coarsely, "but I’ll try to…for they, much as you, are innocent of your father’s deeds,” he finally managed through only partially clenched teeth.

“You have my deepest thanks, my lord,“ Celebrimbor bowed and then kneeled before his king, but Finarfin held his arm and made him stand up.

“It is not to me to whom you’re indebted, but to the King whom you shall swear to serve. And rest assured that should you ever dare betray him, I’ll chase you to the very halls of waiting and make sure your punishment will make Morgoth feel he’s got the best lot!” For a moment he feared that Celebrimbor’s head would fall off its hinges, so he put both hands upon the feänorian’s shoulders to make him stop nodding.

“Regarding what I’ve just glimpsed inside your forge...” he added sternly.

“My, lord, I can explain, I have been…”

“You’ll hear from me, Lord Celebrimbor,” Finarfin said sternly, and with a curt nod he walked away, feeling both relieved and sad.

****

Erestor’s sharp senses had been honed through long years in the forests of drowned Beleriand. A proven hunter, as well as a fell warrior, he knew how to wait for his prey to make a mistake, how to melt in the forest and disappear from sight, how to hold back his breath and remain unmoving, ready to fall upon his unsuspecting quarry, whom, for now, seemed quite busy freeing himself from a tangle of cords that flew around the open flap of a tent.

“Pinching from an allied lord’s belongings is a hanging offence among dwarves, Lord Oropher,” he said gleefully, stepping out from nowhere to stand beside the entangled Sindarin lord.

“I'm not…” Oropher grunted, fighting with the cords. “Will you help me, Erestor?“

“There,” Erestor smiled, freeing him, “now, shall I take you before our king, or rather before the allied Dwarf-lord whose tent you were plundering...”

“I wasn’t plundering!” the short-tempered Sindarin lord seemed ready to explode, even as Erestor made an irritating noise with his tongue.

“Your manners, my lord. I heard that you had received lessons from a certain Dwarf-lord, but surely that wasn’t enough…now, no wonder your son was raiding the King’s tent… no offence meant,” Erestor added quickly at the deathly look that crossed Oropher’s eyes, “he’s a fine young lord, I’ll refrain myself from commenting about you family,” he added, “if you kindly explain why on Arda were you trying to provoke an incident between us and the dwarven colonies east and west?”

Erestor’s voice had now reached the point of freezing, and Oropher knew better that to take him lightly.

“You’re a Nandorin elf, Erestor.“

“Thanks for reminding me, Oropher...” They had walked to a secluded area behind some tents, a place free of Olvárin's mariners, and had sat down uncomfortably upon the ground.

“And you spent many years in Menegroth enjoying Elu’s hospitality…”

“Yes, alas that we did not enjoy his timely help instead,“ Erestor agreed coldly. (4)

“Whatever.“ Oropher cleared his throat, furiously searching for another approach. “The Dwarf is cheating us, Erestor, I know that. I’d say that Brith…” Erestor’s cold glance convinced him to change words on the spot, “the king knows his plan, too.”

“Oh, does he?”

“Hear me out, Erestor!“ he pleaded. “He’s a Noldorin lord, no matter what Círdan and you want to believe, and now he’s allied himself with those Peredhil and the Dwarf. They know of scattered and secret elven realms, the Dwarf has shown the maps to your king, and surely to you and…”

“Wait, wait, wait...how do you know this?” Erestor interrupted him. “You must tell me first, if you want me to trust you.“

“I don’t need your trust,“ Oropher said regally. “I didn’t plunder, I was only searching for maps for I intend to travel east with my people and settle down away from a Noldorin lord who is betraying us and keeping information away from us. I just... overheard a conversation!”

“I see…” Erestor nodded, as he began to suspect. “I’m ready to forget that I saw you crawling out of Lord Gundaghâl’s tent, Oropher, which could be considered a most serious offence, I remind you...” Oropher bit his lip but said nothing. “In exchange,“ Erestor kept on mercilessly, “I want you to go to the shipyards and help your son and his friends teach the edain how to choose and cut down the appropriate trees for their shipbuilding...you wanted to add anything, my lord?”

“Your generosity shall be remembered, Lord Erestor,“ Oropher grunted as he bowed stiffly and walked away, muttering to himself.

Erestor watched him depart with an amused smile and then walked to a well-known tent.

“Elrond,” he called, entering the peredhel’s tent with a cheerful smile, “I was wondering about some secret maps of the eastern lands…”

TBC

Notes:

(1) In HoME 11, Last Writings, “Círdan”, Tolkien says that the Shipwright longed to depart to the Blessed Realm and that he arrived late to the shores because he had been looking for Elwë. He then turned his skill to making ships and vowed to sail, alone, if need must be, to reach the blessed light of Aman and his nearest kin. But Ulmo spoke to him and commanded him to stay. Tolkien also says that Ulmo showed Círdan many things yet to become, and thus he became the most enlightened elf in ME.

(2) This grandmother is Anairë, Fingolfin’s wife and mother of Fingon, Turgon and Aredhel. She remained in Valinor.

(3) As you may remember, there was much mixing between exiles and grey elves both in Vinyamar-Gondolin and in Nargothrond, so there might be many survivors who had Noldorin unknown relatives back in Aman.

(4) You may remember, too, that, in this story, Erestor is a Nandorin elf, survivor of Denethor’s army. They were surrounded by orcs during the first battle of Beleriand, and Elu’s help arrived too late.