This is a translation of my story written originally in Polish, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know, I will gladly correct them.
The Straight Road
The time of the elves in Middle-Earth was passing, everyone with their eyes opened to the events of the world had to see that. Everyone, even the one who had seen it in a different form, which was known today only from distant stories. Those stories faded as well in the fleeting memory of humans who ruled now, whose kingdoms blossomed with new beauty after the war. The Middle-Earth was rising from ashes and ruins, this time not changing completely its shape, like it once had, when the sea had swallowed Beleriand, as if it had been too marred to remain a part of the after-war world.
This world no longer had a place for elves. This Age belonged to mortal men.
Cirdan had seen it too; in the groups coming and coming to the Grey Havens to sail West. He had heard it in the gulls' cries and in the whispers of the waves, calling to the Immortal Lands even those who had known them more like an old tale than a real, existing place. The Havens emptied, just like the former kingdoms of the elves desolated. New ships carried their passengers into the journey without a comeback.
Finally the Shipwright too heard the singing that had called so many before him. He made a ship and stepped on the deck, saying not without a spark of humor that he had delayed his journey the longest among the elves. It was time for him to go to Valinor.
The journey was long, but pleasant and effortless. The ship flew on the calm waters, every evening coming to meet the setting sun, every time seemingly getting closer but remaining too far to be able to catch Arien. Finally, though, joy and expectance was replaced with monotony and then with growing anxiety. The days were passing, the sea and the sky were the only things around them and their destination was not even a distant point on the horizon.
Until it changed. At first Cirdan, called on the deck with excited shouts, didn't realize what he saw, but soon it became clear that it was impossible to fool the keen elven eyes. He was not mistaken, what they took for an island was remains of a ship, the hill – a cabin, and the tree trunk – a broken mast. The Shipwright ordered to change the direction, they got as close as they could, but time had slurred the name and wind and storms had paled the colors, so even the maker couldn't distinguish his work.
The elves sailed farther with their hearts heavy, but then they found another remains, at first just few, but soon the flat line of the horizon was covered with dead, empty ships.
Cirdan stood on the deck and observed the wrecks with growing terror. Some of them were old, barely visible over the water, but the other were fresh, with decorations and names still visible on the wounded sides. The waters seemed to be calm and deep and yet the empty shells that were created by him drifted on the surface or remained stuck at shallows, though the elf was oddly certain that no treacherous traps hid in the waters from the sailors' sight until it was too late to avoid the catastrophe. And so, one after another, the ships sank and drowned the passengers who had trusted him.
He looked until he had to accept what he was seeing.
The Straight Road didn't exist. The Valar did not forgive, no matter how much time had passed. They had showed mercy after the War of Wrath, but had they really? Who could be sure what happened to those who had listened then to Eonwe and sailed west with the victorious army of the Valar? Surely no one who stayed in Middle-Earth. The Straight Road, that sounded like mockery, a vicious joke of those who even after centuries wanted to punish insubordinate Noldor, and with them all the elves that lived in Middle-Earth. Straight, truly. For what simpler way to the Blessed Realm there was than through the Halls of Mandos, which, as it was said, no fea could leave without being healed previously.
There was no way back home. A ship, once put on this Road, could not change its course and sail back east to the safe, familiar shores.
At Cirdan's gesture the sails rattled in the wind. The silver ship sped on the waves right into the setting sun.