Author's Note: Technically speaking, Earendil is not really a member of a generation of Thingol and Melian's line, but he did marry one (Elwing). However, he is the only one of this whole lot who Tolkien himself described as "glistening". Therefore, I wrote about Earendil doing that which made him glisten, according to Tolkien, not according to Elwing who I am sure made him glisten in other ways which we will not explore at this time.

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He started down yet another deserted street, passing more empty houses and a few more closed shops. Looking up at the mid-afternoon sun, he realized he had been engaged in this fruitless endeavor for several hours now. He had never before seen a city this magnificent or this large. How many streets could one city possibly have? Where was everyone?

“Hello! Is anyone here?” he cried out again and again in each of the many languages he knew, his voice echoing eerily among the seemingly uninhabited buildings. Again and again, his only answer was silence. Coughing hard to clear his parched throat, his voice hoarse from shouting, he turned down one last empty alley and decided to give up his pointless search.

Hope died in his heart as he realized that Middle-earth was not the only place in Arda poisoned with Morgoth’s taint. Here he stood in Valinor, in what he guessed was the great city of Tirion – and it was completely deserted. Morgoth must have become bored with fighting the free folk of Middle-earth and destroyed the elves of Valinor as well. Morgoth must be mighty indeed if he subdued the Valar in their own lands. Now all that remained was emptiness.

By the time the wanderer reached the city gates, anger overwhelmed him. He punched one of the pillars of the gate as hard as he could, the pain and exertion an outlet for his frustration and despair. He hammered at it with his fist again and again until his hand bled and his arm and shoulder ached from the punishment.

He had failed.

He exited through the unguarded city gate and started down the long winding stairs to the road. Shoulders slumped, chin resting on chest, he did not even notice how many steps he had traversed. He had counted 288 steps on the way up, thinking those steps would never end. Now the number did not matter. Now nothing seemed to matter.

He just could not believe it. How could this have happened? How? All of his life he had believed…NO, he had known that he was the one to bear the message to the Valar, begging for aid for the peoples of Middle-earth. He had KNOWN! Dream after dream and the song of the sea spoke ever in his heart urging him, demanding of him that he build a ship worthy enough to reach Valinor, that he sail to Valinor to beseech pardon for the forsaken. But he had failed…

He had come too late.

What had he given up all of these years to come here? He had lost his mortal father and elven mother to their attempt to voyage here. He had lost his home and his city to the wrath of the sons of Fëanor because he was away when they attacked, trying to regain the Silmaril his wife possessed. He had failed his people for he was their lord and was not there to defend them.

He had lost his little boys in that attack as well, his beloved twin sons who he hardly even knew for the urgency of his searching the seas for the way to Valinor. He had hoped to make a world safe for them and for their children where he could teach them to sail and spend his days with them and his beautiful wife Elwing.

Oh, Elwing.

What had he done to her? She was always so patient with him in his mad passion, always understanding of what possessed him, what drove him to sail away after too little time home. She had persevered for him, had found him at sea with the Silmaril at her breast. She had stayed by his side through it all, and for what? In her setting foot on Valinor against the ban of the Valar, she had called the wrath of the Valar upon herself as he had taken it upon himself.

And now he had failed. He had failed her. He had failed the Moriquendi and the Atani, now bereft of every home they had ever known. He had failed the Noldor, cursed and bereft of everything they had gained as well. He had failed everyone…

Shaking his head, tears began to slip down his face, one for every step he took, one for every life lost, one for every person he had failed...

His slow decent finally met the level ground of the seaward road. With naught left to do but return to his ship and take council with his wife, he turned and began the long trudge back to the sea.

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But unbeknownst to the wanderer, his many calls had been heard. Eonwë, herald of Manwë the King of Arda stood silent upon Tuna, the hill crowned by Tirion the fair, watching. He also had perceived the visitor’s despairing thoughts. Long had the herald looked upon the glistening form of this lonely mariner whose clothes were now bathed in the dust of diamonds from his trek through the jewel-lined streets of Tirion. Eonwë had marveled at the beauty of this strange being blended of the two kindreds of the Children of Iluvatar, gazing upon the tall powerful body, the eyes which surpassed the deepest blue of the sapphires in Manwë’s crown, the hair of shining gold, the Silmaril boldly bound upon the noble brow. There Eärendil shone; a light for both elves and men. Pity and awe consumed Eonwë’s heart as he triumphantly called to the young peredhel in a mighty voice.

“Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned, the looked for that cometh at unawares, the longed for that cometh beyond hope! Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendor of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!”

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The mariner stopped in his tracks, turning to face the voice. And hope was born again in Eärendil’s heart.

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Eonwë’s greeting is quoted directly from the Silmarillion.