The Last Of The Eldar

The Hunt Through Beleriand

Prologue: Awaiting

The ceaseless thundering of the waves of the deep swelled upon the grey tower, pouring their unending wrath fruitlessly upon the archaic edifice. At the pinnacle of the tower stood a tall lone figure. The echoes of the waves beneath him rose up and filled his mind. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the world and the long ages slip away until all that remained was the simple throbbing of the frothing sea. He opened his eyes, which were ancient beyond reckoning and as grey as the havens, which he called home. The sun was sinking into its fiery cradle behind the outstretched waves in the west, setting all to shimmering glass.

The sight of the Sundering Sea stretching out beyond the curve of the horizon filled him with a burning longing more acute than any mortal could long endure and a deep ache that gnawed at him far deeper than his bones. He had gazed upon this sea for many millennia. And from the moment he had first glimpsed the waves sparkling beneath the stars like precious stones and heard their whispers and roars concerning that far shore in the West, across the ages to his present breath, filling his chest with salty sea air, that aching had only increased to an all-consuming fire that ever threatened to drive him into the quenching arms of the sea.

He ached for his true home—beyond the shimmering waves and indeed beyond the circle of the world. He longed to sail unto Aman, Valinor, the realm of the Lords of the West—to the seat of Manwë—to at long last join his kin and all of the Eldar—all of the Elves who had ever chosen to answer the call of the Valar so many eons ago. He was naturally fond of all water, and once he had reached it, especially the great sea. This almost innate allure to water coupled with his longing for his true home made staying upon these fading shores unbearable. But it was no uncontrollable madness, only the deepest yearning that must eventually and ultimately be fulfilled. He had missed and willingly given up several opportunities to journey hence over the immeasurable count of years. He staunchly put his faith in the wisdom of the Lords of the West and he would obey their will to the last.

Círdan sighed deeply. He looked down from his high vantage atop the watchtower to his right. There below him, safely moored and nestled in the calm waters at the edge of the Gulf of Lhun was the ship that he had finally and long prepared to take him into the West. Over the ages Círdan had made many ships for the elves leaving Middle Earth. But never were any of these beautiful vessels meant to ferry him to his long awaited rest in the uttermost West.

Yet after thousands of lives of Men and even of Elves Círdan was nearly prepared to complete the Great Journey. He traced the graceful curve of its silver prow and the elegant but strong pale mast with his ageless and keen Elf eyes.

Not yet, he thought. Soon though. Very soon. The immanence of his final departure weighed upon his mind and spirit with both gravity and levity. Círdan allowed himself to become lost momentarily beneath the cloud of emotions welling up within him.

But the careful and nearly silent footsteps of an approaching stranger brought him from his private reverie with the disciplined awareness of both the Ancient and the Wise back to his wind-swept vigil atop the Havens.

Círdan turned slowly to see another elf standing beside him, his long golden hair braided and pulled skillfully away from his piercing pale eyes. He wore the robes the Eldar used in travel, yet he had been the guest of Círdan for years now. Like nearly all elves he was beardless, despite his great age, his face was yet youthful—the only hint of the long count of years the elf had endured could be seen in the depths of his light azure eyes.

Círdan smiled at the newcomer and absent-mindedly stroked his own well-kept long silver beard—the clearest evidence of his immense age, even by the standards of the Elves. Next to Círdan, his golden haired companion could not compare with the uninterrupted ages that swirled behind Círdan's grey eyes.

Indeed, he was the oldest of the Firstborn remaining in Middle Earth. His sharp and long-lived memory stretched back over three whole ages of the world. Though those of the Firstborn did not age as do mortal men, he was in his "old age" by the reckoning of the Elves. Círdan could recall the rising of the first sun in the west. He could remember the millennia before the sun and moon were made when all was wind and starlight. And only very few indeed knew that Círdan could recall the sweet waters of Cuivienen, the Waters of Awakening, in the far-east where Enel, the third of all Elves to awake, had gently roused him from sleep primordial. Círdan was one of the Unbegotten and had no father but Eru Illuvatar, the maker of Elves and Men and of all Arda.

And though never a great warrior or king, Círdan was greatly revered and respected by Men and Elves alike due to his wisdom, great age, and his history of faithfully serving all of the free peoples of Middle Earth since time immemorial.

The two elves stood side by side staring out at the sea. The newcomer folded his arms and stood stiffly and wearily. Círdan turned his head and noted his troubled posture.

"Friend, Glorfindel, what troubles you so much that you would join me in my lonely watch?"

Glorfindel gave a thin wry smile. "The sea is indeed beautiful from this point. I see why you return here daily to observe its splendor and scintillating fire."

"The waters of Ulmo are indeed dazzling to behold, and they hold the key to my heart, but viewing its grandeur is not the reason I frequent this watch." Círdan paused as Glorfindel's smile returned to a weary and troubled frown. "What troubles you, friend?" he asked once more.

"Why do we linger on these shores? For generations you have aided all of our kin in leaving these grey lands. Why do we yet stay?"

"It is as I have said before, my old friend, I will remain in Middle Earth until the last Eldar sets sail into the West. I will not leave as much as one willing Elf behind. This has been my task for many generations—as you have put it."

"But we are the last two—you and I. All of those who ever intended to journey over the sea have done so. And all those of our kind which remain are of the Avari and mean to dwell on these shores and fade amidst the kingdoms of Men unto the ending of the world. And your mission never was to them. Has your heart and your purpose changed to include them as well? For if it has, then I fear that you will never sail yourself from this land and I shall have to set sail without you," Glorfindel's voice was full of concern and frustration.

Smiling at the passion of his companion Círdan answered, "You need not worry. You shall indeed see the Blessed Realm once more. My heart burns within me to see the home of my kin and the dwelling of the Valar. I tremble to contemplate what it must be for your spirit—to have dwelt there twice and have left twice. No, have no fear, for you are Amanyar, and shall see the light of your birthplace once more."

"We will both sail together. And soon. But as to your other concerns—my purpose has not changed. I wait only for those of our kin who ever undertook or wanted to undertake the Great Journey. I am not duty bound to the ones who have refused the call or who are content to stay in Middle Earth. If some turn their hearts toward the West after I am gone, they will have to find their own way thence."

"And finally you are not correct in your claim that we are the last of the Eldar upon these shores. Indeed one yet remains."

Glorfindel turned in confusion, "Of whom do you speak? I have kept careful records since I have arrived at the Havens. I sent out messengers to Greenwood the Great and to all of the other remaining settlements. I have even made a careful census of all the Noldor and Sindar that came east over the mountains out of the ruins of Beleriand. Since that time all have sailed over the sea or perished in the wars hence. Not one of them remains. You must be in error in your reckoning."

"I have made no error as you boldly suppose. Of your meticulous and thorough measures to search amongst elf-kind for any tarrying Eldar I find no fault. However, the one of whom I speak dwells not in any realm or hold of Elves. And seldom has he ever had dealings with the greater portion of our peoples though he be more ancient than you, if only slightly less than me."

"How can such a person exist? Why have I not heard tidings of this mysterious elf? Surely one so old as you suggest should have songs and tales written of him? Surely his deeds—however small should bring their echoes to the ears of our people?"

"Nay, dear friend, his long path has always carried him away from the Firstborn of Illuvatar. He is the estranged son of our kind. And ever in the shadows has he dwelt. No songs or tales have been made of his deeds—at least not by the tongues of the Eldar. Yet in the halls across the sea he will be welcomed with honor and praise by Manwë and all the Valar. For though his deeds are largely secret to most, the Valar are not unaware of his great toils and the good that he has wrought in the world during his time. And I believe there is one across the sea besides the Valar who loves him and awaits his arrival eagerly and will embrace him in joy. At the End of Days his place will be next to the heroes of time—Feänor, Gil-Galad, Turin Turambar, Elendil, Ecthelion, Frodo of the Nine-Fingers, and next even to you, Glorfindel of Gondolin and Rivendell."

"I persist in my incredulity. How could such a hero go unnoticed by the sight of the Eldar?!"

Remembering an old grey pilgrim, tall but tired, jovial yet stern, wise and powerful, Círdan replied, "As an old friend once said, 'Even the very Wise cannot see all ends,' It is prideful for the Elves to think they can know the goings and comings of all in Middle Earth, much less those of each of their own kind. But he is not wholly invisible to our people. Few enough have had dealings with him. And fewer still know him well. I am fortunate to be among these. For I have known him his entire life and have aided him in his tasks over the ages as well as I may. And he has seen fit to entrust to me the long tale of his years. I swear to you, Glorfindel, that he exists, as I claim. For I would not linger here a second more if it were not so. And he, at long last, is ready, I believe, to leave these lands and find his own rest in Valinor. Very few have deserved it more than he."

Círdan's eyes roved away from Glorfindel to the hills surrounding the Havens. Suddenly he smiled. "Indeed he draws near!"

Círdan pointed back over the hills away from the sea. Sure enough Glorfindel spotted, coming over a far grassy ridge, a tall figure clad in a dark cloak. With his keen vision he saw that he was indeed of elf-kind, though his skin was dark from long exposure to the sun. There were marks upon the skin of his forearms in mysterious shapes and runes, but what they spelled Glorfindel could not yet discern. His hair was haggard and pure white beneath his hood, which was pulled low over his eyes. And he was powerfully built for any among the Children of Illuvatar. But he approached with the weary gait of one utterly exhausted from long toil, wending his way slowly among the sea rocks that dotted the hills about the Havens. He appeared very strange and wild to the high elf's eyes, and he wondered what was the nature and character of the mysterious pilgrim who stumbled over the hills towards the havens.

Círdan turned from his vigil, his fine silver hair flowing in mimicry of his sea-blue robes. He moved to the tower stair. "Come, Glorfindel. We shall haste down, and while we journey I shall relate to you his story so that upon your meeting you shall know and appreciate as I do all that he has endured and accomplished. Now let us greet our guest and our kin, the Last of the Eldar east of the sea, Canyo son of Nolmo, who is also known as Aledhel Nidayun."

Note for the story and DISCLAIMER:

This story contains many original characters to the Tolkien universe with cameos and roles from many established characters. But it is not meant to be set in any alternate universe. I am attempting to simply "write in the gaps" and "behind the scenes" but within the already established canon.

I do not own or have any claim to the characters, places or concepts in any of Tolkien's writings. I am simply a fan seeking to write and enjoy the universe he created.

I am attempting to write in a similar way to Tolkien-in word choice, dialogue, plot devices, and themes. I can never duplicate it or do it justice but I humbly attempt it nonetheless.

If any are concerned that I am mixing elves of different 'verses into my story, have no fear. I am not. Canyo is meant to remain 100% a Tolkien elf. His unusual appearance and names for an elf are due to the fact that he is an extraordinary character who has undergone extraordinary circumstances, which should in the end make him at least plausible within the Tolkien universe. He is not a "hero" in the classic sense and he is far from perfect with defects and flaws.

If you happen across this story and are intrigued enough to read it, thank you for your time. I hope that you find something here that you enjoy and that reminds you of why you delight in Tolkien's world in the first place. Happy reading!

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