The Fëanorians had torched Elwing and Eärendil’s house. Círdan tried not to feel surprised at that, watching the black charred remains of what had been rafters, beams, and furniture slowly smolder and collapse in the harsh shore breeze. All the embers had cooled by now, and he knew he could approach the ruins of what had been the house of his dear friends (adopted niece and nephew, yet another war orphan he had taken in as his own). He feared approaching, worried that it will be more than burned wood he would find in the wreckage. His men, searching the other buildings, had already found bodies. Elven and mortal, male and female, old and young, every sort imaginable. Círdan did not wish confirmation of which he would find in this house. The Fëanorians had burned the docks. That he was not surprised at, for they had no more use for ships, or at least still had the self-awareness that no boat upon these waves would tolerate them. Still, Círdan knew one ship was not present, and thus one body he shall not find.

And, staring at the charred ruins of the home of Elwing and her young children, for the first and only time, Círdan fervently prayed that Vingilot had foundered upon the waves. The Shipwright wished this betrayal of his craft. Let not the lad return to this, he prayed. Better he dies, drowns in a storm, not seeing the destruction of his home, the death of his people. Never have asked this of you, Lord Ossë, oh, how Círdan wept, but never allow him to return to this shore, when this sorrow is all that awaits him.