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~