Tag: eärendil

Burnt Lighthouses

The Fëanorians had torched Elwing and Eärendil’s house. Círdan tried not to feel surprised at the act of arson. It was not the only area of the Havens put to the torch. With the silent patience of a fisherman, Círdan watched the black charred remains of what had been rafters, beams, and furniture slowly smolder and collapse in the harsh shore breeze. A beam slipped free of where it balanced precariously and thudded to the ground, but the sound was muted by the heavy layer of ash. All the embers had cooled by now, and Círdan knew he could approach the ruins of what had been the house of his dear friends without fear of burns. No, give them truth in the silence of his heart as he stood and paid his respects before the ashes of their lives. Elwing and Eärendil had been his adopted niece and nephew, yet another war orphan he had taken in as his own, as Ereinion became the beloved child of this lifelong bachelor.

And because of that deep love, Círdan feared approaching closer, feared to walk through all those charred black piles, worried that it would be more than burned wood that 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. All except bodies of orcs, and that was the key difference that confounded the searchers, for they were all veterans from Brithombar and Eglarest and all the points inland, all familiar with the aftermath of towns and cities sacked by Morgoth’s armies. Strange it was for them to find only elven and mortal dead, only those weapons, only red blood. Some bodies had burned in the arson; most had not. Identifying the dead was easy if they had been neighbors and friends. Círdan’s men had the survivors of the Havens assisting the search, looking for any other survivors, looking for the dead, looking for names to give the slain refugees. Some of the dead elves the survivors did not recognize, but they begged that the bodies collected for honorable burial, as they had tried to stop the attack or tried to extinguish the fires. Some of the buildings were still too unstable to investigate.

Círdan did not wish confirmation of which he would find in this house.

If he refused to cross the threshold, the horror remained an abstract.

The Fëanorians had also 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 had not been 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, who prided himself on the soundness of his ships, wished this betrayal of his craft. He hoped that only pieces of driftwood returned to this beach to join the charcoal that lined it. 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 I 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.

rose-of-the-bright-sea:

Dírhaval plucked absently at his lute, repeating the words over in his mind, trying to force them into rhyme. His mind was sluggish in the heat. Under the midday sun, Túrin’s bravery and misery melted from his imagination. The stars served for better inspiration.

Dírhaval groaned and set aside his instrument. The grime was to thick to ignore, after all. He stripped off his shirt and made his way to the water basin, splashing the warm water against his skin.

“Whoa. You look like Atto!”

Dírhaval jumped, startled by the little voice. He spun to see a boy, golden-haired and bright-eyed, standing between Dírhaval’s hanging laundry. Dírhaval reasoned that the boy had playing in the woods and gotten turned around — few wandered from the main camp. One of the Gondolindrim, given the Quenya.

“And I presume your father is dashingly handsome?” Dírhaval asked with a grin. He glanced over the boy’s head in search of a guardian.

“That’s not what I meant,” the boy said. His eyes went wide a moment later and a fierce flush spread across his cheeks. “No, wait! I just meant… Please stop laughing, sir. My father has hair like that. Are all men that hairy?”

My father, Dírhaval thought, suppressing his laughter. That didn’t make sense. The Gondolindrim were all of the Firstborn, most either of the Sindar or the Noldor. Well, except for—

“You are Túor’s son?” Dírhaval asked quickly. “Eärendil the peredhil?”

The boy regarded him at arm’s length, perhaps wary of a stranger who could guess his identity.  Dírhaval cursed his bluntness and tried again.

“Forgive me, lad,” he said, then extended a hand. “My name is Dírhaval, Bar Hador.”

“The House of Hador?” Eärendil’s voice lifted. “Really?”

“Aye, my grandfather fought beside Hador Lórindol at Dagor Bragollach,” Dírhaval said.

“That’s my grandfather’s grandfather!” Eärendil boasted. He stepped forward and took Dírhaval’s hand, shaking it awkwardly. Perhaps Gondolin had used a different greeting. “I am Eärendil, Bar Hador.”

Dírhaval grinned. “Now tell me, lad, what brings you out here? Surely your lady-mother did not ask you to hunt mushrooms all on your own?”

“You can hunt mushrooms?” Eärendil asked.

“That’s what they tell me,” Dírhaval said with a shrug. “But it was not my real question.”

Eärendil pouted. He was painfully out of place in Dírhaval’s sparse camp. The boy was dressed in a fine silk tunic, dyed a bright lilac. Could the peredhil sweat? The boy didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat, much like his elven kin.

“I… I wanted to trick my guards,” Eärendil admitted. His eyes were fixed on his sandals. “But I’ve gotten lost.”

“Fortunately, I know the way back to the camps,” Dírhaval chuckled. He grabbed a fresh shirt from the clothesline. It wasn’t silk, but better cotton than shirtless.

“Why do you live out here?” Eärendil asked as they started walking. “Ammë says it’s dangerous at night.”

“If I was farther out, it might be,” Dírhaval admitted. He slowed his pace as Eärendil scrambled up a fallen tree, then began to hop across its length. “I usually stay with the main camp, but I thought the quiet might help with my work.”

“Your work?”

Eärendil leaped over a cracked branch, then jumped onto a nearby boulder. Dírhaval considered stopping him, but the boy seemed surefooted enough. Besides, Dírhaval had heard his sister complain enough about royal tantrums. He had no interest in experiencing one for himself.

“I am a poet,” Dírhaval explained. “I am writing about your father’s cousin, as a matter of fact.”

“Cousin?” Eärendil repeated. He cocked his head. “My father has a cousin?”

Dírhaval’s surprise was short lived. Of course he doesn’t know, Dírhaval chided himself. Túrin’s fate would not have made it to Gondolin, and there were more urgent matters for Túor to attend in Sirion. It was not his place to tell Eärendil a story that his lord-father might still be unaware of.

“It’s a sad story,” Dírhaval said simply.

“So he died.”

Eärendil was ahead of him, standing on an old stump. He turned to Dírhaval for confirmation.

“Why do you say that?” Dírhaval asked slowly.

Eärendil shrugged. He hopped off the stump as Dírhaval caught up. “Every time someone tells a sad story, it ends in death.”

“They tend to do that,” Dírhaval admitted. 

“I guess. But Atto says the happy stories end in death, too. At least when they are about men. He says Haleth and Bëor and Malach all died, but their stories are still happy.”

Dírhaval hummed in contemplation. He could hear the din of the main camps and the soft washing sound from the sea.

“And what do you think, princeling?”

“I think,” Eärendil said, slowly choosing each word, “Atto is right. If stories are sad because someone dies, then the Secondborn can only have sad stories.” He nodded at his own answer. “We don’t only have sad stories, do we Dírhaval?”

“No,” Dírhaval agreed. “We have our share of happy stories, too.”

I wish you would write a fic with Círdan and/or Elwing and/or Eärendil…

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.