The Mariner of Dol Amroth
It was a chill, grey morning in December when three travelers could be seen climbing down into the vale of Rivendell by hard paths out of the North. A mist lay over the floor of the valley, and snow was falling in thick, contented sheets, softening everything beneath a blanket of white. The travelers picked their way down from the scrambling trails and moved slowly through the drooping, snow-laden pines towards the cheerfully glowing windows of the Last Homely House of Elrond Half-elven. Two stood tall and were of mighty bearing, warriors both fell and fair, strong and unwearied despite the wounds of battle each bore. The third was quite different. His back was bent as if from long travel, though it could just as easily have been from the weight of snow gathering on his tall blue hat. He leaned on a great wooden staff as he walked; his grey robes and mantle seeming to fade into the cool mist so that little could be seen of him but a great white beard and the occasional sparkle from eyes hidden beneath thickly frosted brows and a wide brim.
As they crossed the sloping sward of unmarked white that ran down from the Last Homely House to the loudly rushing Bruinen, the door opened and a fair party issued forth onto the covered porch to greet the travellers, bathed from behind in the glow of firelight.. The thought of the company and comfort of the great house hastened their steps, and soon they were kicking the snow from their boots and shaking it from hat and hair. It was not long before they had changed their clothes, stained with travel and battle, and had joined the others in the Hall of Fire.
At no time of the year did the Hall give such a feeling of comfort and joy as in the deeps of winter. The fitfully blazing fire gave off a merry glow, and the frost-traced windows looking out into the mist-shrouded pines made one feel as though weary time had, at long last, ceased to flow. All around the fire were seated the fair inhabitants of Rivendell, who filled the hall with a soft shimmering light and with the melody of their voices. After a time, the singing died down and wine was brought for all, but it was only a flicker of flame from a corner of the room that reminded the assembled elves of their visitor. Still wearing his grey mantle and with staff close at hand, Gandalf the Grey sat resting in a deep chair with his legs stretched out before him. He had just lit a finely crafted pipe, and was blowing smoke rings that danced around the vaulted chamber as if they had minds of their own. "Brilliant little people." he said softly, contemplating the pipe.
"Mithrandir!" called a golden-haired elf sitting near the fire, "Come and join us in story and song! Tell us what brings you here unlooked for, and how you came to be in the company of Elladan and Elrohir! They seem ill in the mood to tell their own tale this morn."
"Then I won't try to speak for them, Gildor," answered Gandalf, drawing long on his pipe, 'Their tale was already finished when we met in the wastes beyond the Trollshaws. Of my own, the less I speak of it the better. Into the ruins of the Kingdom of Angmar I have been, and of that fell place only to Glorfindel and the Half-elven will I speak. Why aren't they here in the Hall?"
"Both have been in Lothlórien all this past season to speak with the Lady Galadriel," replied Gildor, "Only recently did we receive word that they would return ere the break of spring."
"Well then," sighed Gandalf, only half hiding his contentment, "it seems I will be waylaid in Imladris longer than I had intended. Maybe I will join in your stories after all."
A space was made for him by the fire, and a goblet of wine was filled. The stories of Mithrandir were those most enjoyed by the elves of Rivendell. Though most they knew, he made even the most familiar tale seem almost new, bringing to it some intangible element. Something not so lofty or serene, but at the same time older and less sad.
"I take it from your silence that I'm expected to begin, as usual?" Gandalf said, chuckling into his beard. "I have been thinking about this while we three travelers trekked across the northern wastes, bringing some old tales to mind. I believe I have found one which you will enjoy, maybe even one which none of you, perhaps even in the whole of Middle-earth, has heard before in full."
"A white day is a day for the longest tales!' said Gildor, 'Do you think this story of yours will be a match for the weather?"
"Long enough, I think," Gandalf replied, raising his eyebrows and pausing in thought for a moment, "The tale is a sad one and concerns a mortal man and an elf maiden, as so many of the saddest do. The man's name was Belethrandir, and ..."
"Aha! We know his tale well in Mithlond, my friend," interrupted Galathil, an elf from the kingdom of Lindon. "And even the men of Dol Amroth remember it, after a fashion. Sad it is, but not that long in the telling."
"And didn't I say that you might hear it today in full, Galathil?" Gandalf asked, blowing a
particularly large smoke ring, "Or as full a telling as can be made, on this side of the sea. Though none in Middle-earth realizes it, there are poems and songs from far scattered lands that each reveal a glimpse of this mariner's story, if you know where and how to look. I remember many of these from my travels, and learned more than that in years even longer past. Would you care to hear what I can tell you if there's a chance that it might be new?"
Long ago in the countries of the south lived a great man among great men. He was born on the fair fields of Belfalas within sight of the sea, and his first steps, as all that followed, strayed towards the crashing of the waves and the crying of the gulls. In the days of his youth, he would run and play on the shore and in the surf within sight of the seaward tower of Dol Amroth, his golden hair gleaming in the sun. For he was a descendant from afar of the house of Hador, and the blood of that great family ran as pure in him as it had in any of the inhabitants of Westernesse.
Belethrandir was his name in later days, and he was held high among seafarers long into the Third Age, for the wisdom of the mariners of old was still fresh in the minds of men. Though his parents died while he was yet young (which was not entirely uncommon among those of Númenorean descent, as they married late), no deep shadow clouded his joy in work or play for many years. Before she died, his mother begged a nearby family to take in her son, and they did, for they held her and her husband in high esteem and were grieved by their passing. Soon, this family moved, returning to their ancestral home farther inland, a village which had stood long before the Númenoreans returned to Middle Earth. The boy came to regard all the inhabitants of this new place as his foster family, and memory of his parents might have faded if not for the heirloom which was passed to him as had been wished by his father; a keen-edged knife of elven make.
But the village was small, and the country beyond seemed vast, stirring a restlessness within him. So it was that, when he reckoned himself old enough, he bid his foster folk farewell and journeyed into the wide world. From that time after, he wandered whither he would, setting no home for himself. Rather, he would camp under the stars or, in foul weather, take board in one of the villages of Belfalas. Nigh on twenty years he lived in this manner, coming and going as he pleased, working for his keep and learning what he could of trades and lore. In this way did he earn the name Randir, as well as high esteem among most that he met in the country, though not all spoke his name kindly. To most that met him, though, it would afterwards seem as if their paths had crossed with that of a young lord in exile. But he never, in all his travels in the country of Bel, came upon the sea, and the memory of it faded from his waking thoughts.
When the years had lengthened upon him and he had reached full age, as his kin reckoned it, the desire grew in Randir to do more than herd sheep and till fields. Taking his few meager possessions, most prized among which was his elvish blade, he made ready for the journey to the gleaming city of Dol Amroth, there to take up service with Lord Aradur of the Tower. On the morning of his departure, the third day of Narvinyë (January, as we now reckon such things), he set off on the northward road, for he dwelt at that time in the southern reaches of Belfalas among the hills of Tarnost, where they came nearest to the sea. He had just passed out of the settlement that had been his home that winter when a shrill whistle caught his attention, and he saw an old man picking his way down a path from the hills, leaning heavily on a staff.
'What's this?' Randir laughed, 'What could coax Iaur the wise from his high home? Could it be to bid me a good journey? Or a good riddance, more likely.'
'Whatever strikes your fancy, whelp. I care only to see you leave.' responded Iaur, stopping his descent on a ledge overlooking the road. 'Though I wonder,' he added with a sneer, 'what whim leads your feet to the road this time?'
'More than a whim.' he said, holding his head high. I travel to Dol Amroth to place myself in the service of our Lord Aradur.'
'Ha!' Iaur replied coldly. 'You were not made for service, wanderer. At least not on any terms but your own. I doubt not that you will find service to the Lord of Belfalas more akin to bondage than you may like to think.' Iaur glared down at Randir, eyes flashing under thick brows, 'It is easier to abandon a poor farmer than it is to leave one's lord and master.'
'If such be the case, I will endure as best I can.' responded Randir in measured tones, 'But I think you may not know me as well as you believe, anymore than you understand the reasons for what I do or have done. Now, unless you care to delay your own pleasure with more words, I have a long and cold journey ahead of me.'
With that Randir bowed stiffly, turned, and continued on the road. But Iaur hobbled behind him to
the edge of his perch, shouting down at him as he went, 'What makes you think that you are worthy of service to a Lord at any rate, young ragamuffin? You think they clothe themselves in rags and hides even in the city, leaving their hair to fly uncut and unkempt? No, it is a higher folk that lives in there than you can match. They will laugh you right out the gate if you expect them to treat you as you are accustomed!'
Randir heard Iaur's spiteful taunts, though he did not so much as cast a glance back at him. But a shadow fell on his heart, for the parting words of the old man gnawed at him all the long miles to the city, until he came to fear his arrival and the reception that he would receive. He did not hasten his pace, and despite the chill winter it was nearly two weeks before he came within sight of the city, glimpsing the seaward tower first, recognizing it as if from a vague dream. Desiring to see more, he climbed a rocky slope to one side of the road, and so beheld the sea's majesty for the first time in many years, and was amazed. On its shores, the city of Dol Amroth rose to the sloping edge of the northern cape, and on that high place rose the great tower. At its feet, the land fell in a high cliff that gleamed white in the low winter sun. To the west, the land marched quickly down to the shore and the port, about which danced a multitude of white sails.
Another day's travel brought him to the open gates of the city, through which passed a constant stream of traffic, even in the winter months. Randir scarcely noticed himself passing into the place, so entranced was he by its greatness. Keeping his eyes on the tall tower where the Lord of Dol Amroth held court, he wandered the streets, passing through many parts of the city. But he had not forgotten Iaur's last words to him, and he soon felt as though the eyes of every passer-by mocked him. In the market-squares he saw the finery and beauty of the city-folk, and in the wide courts he saw wondrous fountains and gardens, and began thinking that he was worthy only to live in the wild lands as he had always done. So consumed with worry was he that he did not hear the murmuring that arose when he passed, for though he had the appearance of one just come from a long journey, his long tousled hair shone in the sunlight, and he was as tall and mighty of bearing as the doughtiest of the warriors of Gondor. And many of the people followed him at a distance, asking aloud, 'What business might this young lord have in our city?'
So it was that, with a great number of the inquisitive in his train, he reached the steps of the great seaward tower of Dol Amroth. Rumors began running through the crowd as to his origin and purpose. Some said that he was a lord of Osgiliath, others a warrior from Arnor, a few even saying with great authority that he was an elf prince from the ruined kingdom of Eregion. But none supposed to say his business as confidently, and none had the courage to ask him. So the throng followed him through the streets, stopping at the plaza outside the great tower. Slowly, Randir mounted the great stairs to the gate, and happened to look back upon nearing the top. There he stood for long moments in a daze, staring over the veritable sea of men and women crowding to see this strange man. And it seemed to him that he could hear the ocean's roar louder than before, but quickly realized that it was the swelling murmur of the crowd. Heart soaring and eyes gleaming, Randir hailed them, turned, and strode into the tower, thinking to himself, 'Iaur was wrong. The people of Dol Amroth hold me in higher esteem than I could have dreamed.'
Five long steps he took, pride building in his breast. But as his first footfall beyond the gate echoed throughout the white hall within, he stopped in amazement. The tower was among the mighty works of the men of Westernesse in the days of their greatness, a great white column raised to watch over the Bay of Belfalas. The hall in which Randir stood was high ceilinged and bright, supported by pillars all of marble, ebony, and gold. Each pillar was shaped in the form of a gracefully curving swan's neck, atop which was a head looking down and outwards, supporting the arched roof. The hall extended half of the circumference of the tower, stopping at either end with great double doors, beyond which were the barracks of the White Guard. Immediately before the front gate was a short but high corridor, arching steeply to a point and ending in huge doors of iron-bound oak, and it was towards these that Randir slowly started. As he approached them, men in bright armor and white tunics stepped forth from alcoves to either side and swung the doors open smoothly. Randir wondered why he was not questioned by these sentinels, not suspecting that rumor of his coming had already reached the tower.
Beyond the great doors was a broad circular chamber with vaulted ceiling and arching walls. All around its circumference the chamber was richly muraled, giving the impression of a view over a wide harbor, its scenes remembering the might of the armada of Númenor which had sailed against the Dark Lord in centuries long past. A carpeted path down the center of the chamber was bordered by pillars, tall and straight as ship's masts, and each row was bordered by a long clear pool over which glided white swans. Though the pillars were bedecked with lamps of silver and crystal which gave off a soft brilliance, the hall was now lit by the sun, filtering in from windows, narrow but tall, arrayed around the hall near its ceiling. Upon the carpeted middle way Randir walked, flanked behind either shoulder by guards in attire similar to that of the doorkeepers. At the far end of the hall was a low dais upon which stood a simple throne (in deference to the King of Gondor), its arms shaped as swan's wings and with a swan's head gracefully curving over the seat. A mighty man viewed his court there. No longer young in years, but not yet old, was Aradur, Lord of Dol Amroth. Clothed he was in a snowy white robe, under which gleamed a mail coat. A long graying beard reached for his belt, a slender rod was across his lap, the symbol of his high place, but he wore no crown. Randir approached the dais and knelt until he heard a laugh.
Looking up with a start, Randir saw Aradur rise, chuckling into his beard and extending one hand.
'Well met! It was said that a high lord had come to take counsel with me, but I have never met one so courteous. Rise my young friend.'
Randir stood, and he overtopped Aradur's crownless head.
'Tall and silent as well. Perhaps the tongues of my people have wagged with a bit too much imagination in this matter,' he said with a grin. 'But come, tell me your name and your errand here.'
'I am called Randir, a traveler from the fields of your land. I have come to offer my services to you.' he responded, wondering at his Lord's manner. He had expected a high and puissant man, noble and distant. All these things save one was the man before him. Rather than distant, Lord Aradur seemed almost fatherly, kind and bright of spirit, wise and content. 'But I have no sword!' he said aloud, thinking, 'Alas, my mind wanders as easily as my feet.'
Laughing again, Aradur sat. 'But you have a knife I see. Such a blade can be just as noble, when born in a noble hand.'
Randir drew the long blade from his belt and looked at it for a moment. Then, kneeling again, he presented it to Aradur. When the Lord had laid it across one knee, Randir took hold of the hilt and swore fealty after the manner of the South-kingdom, for such was the custom in Dol Amroth. Taking the knife again and resheathing it, Randir stood once more and stepped back as his liege rose as well. That knife never left his side again while it was whole.
Putting a hand on Randir's shoulder, Aradur said, 'You are now mine to command, as you well should know. And my first command is that you join me at my board. A traveler long upon the road is in need of a good break in his fast, the more so in the winter.' Turning now, Randir saw that to either side of the hall's entrance were wide staircases, ascending and curving into the heart of the tower. As they climbed, Randir told of his life and skills so that Aradur could better judge what task he was suited for. But now, with the sight and sound of the sea fresh in his mind, his talk ever came back to the days of his youth on the strands of Belfalas. The two entered a great dining hall, richly appointed, and sat to their meal, yet Aradur did not stop Randir's wandering speech, remaining silent and attentive all the while. As the tale reached its completion, Aradur began stroking his beard thoughtfully. Finally, after they had finished their meal, he spoke.
'Randir, you are of mighty lineage; your hair, face, and speech all belie it, though you know it not. Your love of Uinen is obvious, and the sea-longing is not felt so strong by any, save the Eldar, as it is by the descendants of the House of Hador. Therefore, I say to you that after you have been taught the ways of the city and the lore of recent days and those long past, you shall learn the ways of the mariner and shall be enlisted in the fleet of Dol Amroth.'
Hearing these words, Randir felt a joy that he had rarely known before. No pursuit seemed so fair to him as to tread among the waves now, and when he was dismissed and taken to one of the boarding houses of the city, he looked ever and eagerly out to the sea.
Now Dol Amroth was a great city in those days, one established during the days of the power of the Men of the West, and though it later fell, the great tower was never totally destroyed. But this stronghold was not the only fair place in Belfalas. If one followed the coast to the north, a river great and fair would be found, rushing to the sea from its springs in the Ered Nimrais far to the north. Resting on its southern shore in days of old was a green place unlike any south of the mountains. Edhellond it was called in Randir's time, the Elf-haven. Though its makers were not of the Eldar and sailed no ships, they were greatly skilled in the making of places where living things of beauty could thrive, for they came from the golden woods of Laurelindórenan. But years after its founding, some of the other kindreds came, seeking a place in which to build and sail their white ships when the weariness of Middle-earth fell upon them. And yet others came to assuage their longing for the sea, though they did not desire to depart yet.
High among them was an elf-maid, born amidst the bliss of the Elder Days in the realm of Doriath, named Celebriel. Well was she named, for her hair was silver beyond silver. It shone as mithril, flowing in the breeze like liquid metal under sun, stars, and moon. Fair she was, held in awe by her kin and by all who saw her. She loved all things that grew, especially the tall mallorn trees which were found then
only in elvish realms beyond the Misty Mountains. Her garb was green with traceries of gold, remembering those trees; for she had left them for the sea. But the crashing of the waves and the gleaming of the sand on the beach she loved almost as much. Long days would she spend walking along the shores of Belfalas within sight of Edhellond, singing and dancing under Sun and Moon, thinking only of the happiness which she had known during the Ages of Stars. The songs were of those quiet years, seeming more like the singing of the birds and the rivers than the mournful lays which came with the elves out of the West, and the dances were graceful and without care, for they were learned from Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom Celebriel was a handmaiden. But bitter she was as well, for with the passing of Tinúviel passed the peace of her heart. She was witness when the doom of Beren was laid down by Thingol, and watched the torment suffered by her mistress for the sake of her mortal lover. For this she was resentful, and it seemed to her that to follow the desire of one's heart, for the maidens of the elven-kindreds at least, was to risk discarding the gift of Illuvatar and to be diminished. So she closed her heart to all but her own memories, fearful that Lúthien's path would one day, by fate or trickery, become her own. But singing and dancing she went regardless, trying to recapture images of the days of her youth and hoping to forget her troubled heart.
Even as Celebriel tried to reclaim the peace she had lost, Randir was finding what he had always desired. In lore and skill he grew quickly, for he had learned something of everything in his days of wandering, and even more readily did he learn to love the shipboard life. Within the space of only three years he was held as the greatest mariner of Dol Amroth, and it was said that he could sail even the mightiest of ships without aid, such was his great strength and endurance. Though his achievements could be credited to himself alone, his popularity was aided by the strange nature of his coming to the city. Aradur's denouncements of the rumours that sprang up at that time never seemed quite strong enough to quell all tongues, and it was still held that Randir was a man who had a hand in many great deeds. So it was that in this time he became known as Belethrandir, the Mighty Wanderer. And ever did he strive to be worthy of the name, for he loved sailing up and down the coasts, staying in the Bay for days on end when his duties allowed. But he yet felt no weariness in his service, for that which he was commanded to do ever coincided with his own thoughts.
The next year, in the month of Nárië, when summer was yet young, Aradur made Randir his herald and emissary, the highest honor in the city; for the two had grown to be close friends, and the mariner knew much of the counsels of his Lord. But some said that Belethrandir had been born too late, for his heart ever led him to desire great deeds. Truly, it was in this alone that he was discontent, for it had been over a century since the fall of the Dark Lord, and without evil to oppose, those of strong body and brave heart may find the peace that their forebears fought for difficult to endure. Nonetheless, the winding road that Randir followed had led away from land to ride over the sea that he loved, and he had much with which to occupy himself. For with his new titles came more responsibilities and wider wandering. Often did his missions take him to Pelargir and the plains of Lebennin, to Osgiliath over the Anduin, and thrice ere the end to the broken kingdom of Lindon on errand to Círdan the Shipwright. Greatly did his pride wax, treated with honor by the highest of the high, esteemed by his own lord, and loved by his people. But still he had a mind for simpler things, and spent much time in the Bay of Belfalas. For though his eyes had seen some of the wideness of the world, those waters seemed like home to him still.
One day in the height of spring, the thought came to Randir to take the leave he was allowed by his Lord and explore the bay thoroughly, for up till then he had allowed little time to acquaint himself with the regions through which he passed. Taking a small coastal ship which he himself had built and named Kirinki (after the small, fleet birds of the West), he set off to the east, following the shore and dropping anchor often to wander here and there. On one such excursion, he decided to spend several days ashore, for the woodlands in that region were enchanting beyond any that he had yet seen, and the birds sang sweetly within. That evening a warm breeze came off the sea, the night being lit by the glimmering stars alone (for the moon had waned), the air filled with the sound of the lapping of the waves and the songs of the nightingales. Randir wondered at the forest, for it reminded him of those which he saw briefly in his two visits to Lindon, and he did not guess that he had drawn near to Edhellond, of which even he did not know. As he walked aimlessly in the faery wood, a new song was carried to his ears from the sea. Like the singing of the nightingales it was, but sweeter and more pure; for he heard Celebriel, wandering from her home as was her wont, roaming in the darkling shadows and splashing through the glittering tide. The music seemed magical to him, for it brought strange images to his mind, visions of places and times beyond the realms of mortal thought. Creeping back to the beach as silently as he could, he stood amidst the trees, and there he saw. Her hair was like a wave crafted by elvish-skill out of moonsheen, and radiance flowed from her as though she were but a veil over a living star. Words ever escaped him when he tried to recall the image of beauty he beheld that night, and only in song could he fully remember her, for at that moment he raised his own voice. Strong it was, and though untrained, the music he made seemed to merge with her's for an instant. Celebriel stopped suddenly, surprised. Her elven-eyes had marked his approach, but she had thought him one of her admirers from the haven, until he sang. When he stepped out of the trees and onto the sand, she knew him as one of the Dúnedain, and she shuddered. But she would not flee, standing tall and proud instead, fairer than any child of Men. Her eyes of seamless black gleamed in the night and they pierced Randir's heart, and though his tongue failed him, he endured her hard gaze. After a long pause, she broke the tense silence.
'There are those who would take ill to being watched from the shadows. I would rather you made your intentions plain than to have you stand there, staring and dumb.'
Her words were biting and cold, spoken in the high Sindarin tongue, not the form of the language to which Randir's ears were accustomed, for she hoped to drive away this youth who had disturbed her. His pride was hurt, but she seemed all the fairer for her indignation. Mastering himself, he spoke. 'I wandered in the forest, lady, admiring it under the light of the stars. Your singing surprised me, and I came to see what its source could be. I did not know that any of the Elder folk dwelt within 200 leagues of Dol Amroth.'
'Then from where did you suppose your city took its name? Amroth is King of Laurelindórenan and many of his folk have come south from the Golden Wood to dwell by the sea,' Celebriel answered. 'He helped in the building of your tower years ago, and so was his name bestowed on the place.'
'And here I thought myself learnéd, by the measure of men, only to find that I do not know the full history of my home.' laughed Randir, 'I hope the gulls do not bring word of this to my Lord, or he may set me to my books again, and hold me from my appointed duties until I have learned my lessons better. For the high messenger of Dol Amroth must know all that can be learned of lore and language, so that he does not risk failure in his tasks through ignorance.'
'Perhaps it would be better, then, if the gulls had voices which mortals could understand.' she said, irked, for she perceived that he hoped to impress her with his high title. 'But now that you have told me your standing in the seaward city, will you not tell me your name?'
'I have been called Randir for most of my life,' he answered carefully, justly rebuked, 'and the
people of Dol Amroth have called me Belethrandir when they believed my actions had merited such praise. And what of you, my lady? I would not know less of another than they know of me.'
'I have been named Celebriel for years beyond count, since I dwelt in Dorthonion beneath the stars, for my friends said that my hair had caught some of the radiance of that ancient place.' But her words stumbled as she spoke, and for in an instant she remembered unwillingly her sorrow, and all that the world had lost in the Elder Days. Looking down for a moment, she turned and strode away to the north, saying, 'Farewell messenger. Our words have recalled to me that which I would leave buried forever. But you know my name, if that will suffice until we meet again.' Randir watched as she went, wondering at the strange mood of this lady, the most beautiful of any he had seen. His heart was moved deeply by her sadness, and he vowed to remain in the woodlands until he should chance to see her again.
Nearly a month he spent there, living off the land, yet not daring to slay any of the animals which dwelt in that enchanted place. His time was spent singing on the shores and in the glades, and in his songs he called Celebriel by many names, clumsily composing them after the form of the Sindarin tongue, rather than his native Adûnaic; Celefíriel and Loelinven and Fëalinloé were among them. The days rushed by, but a despair settled over him, and he wondered if he would ever see the maiden again. But one day as he sat on a great rocky outcropping that thrust out into the shallow waters from the shore, watching the sun rising slowly in the west, his patience was rewarded at last. He was half-dreaming of Númenor, whose memory ever lived in the thoughts of the Dúnedain, while singing a song in which he had named the elf-maid Ufíriel. Even as it reached its end, a voice far fairer, richer, and more piercing heralded Celebriel's return. Her hair was aglow in the morning sun, and seemed like a torch in the strong sea-breeze. She sang her own song, one recounting the tale of Ëarendil, greatest of all mariners, high-father of the Númenorean race, but she stopped at his meeting with Elwing. She approached the rock on which Randir sat, the water lapping about her legs, and spoke. 'I hope you will forgive my sharpness and the haste of my departure, Dúnadan.' Randir could hardly muster the will to keep from staring, much less answer. In the morning light, it was as if Celebriel had taken on a different aspect, one just as beautiful, but also warmer and less distant. She smiled, seeing his struggle, 'I fear that not all my memories of the Elder Days are to my liking, but some are of a happier sort. Do you know the tale of the mother and father of your race?'
'I know it in book-language,' he answered, finally able to clear his head, 'though I have never heard it in a song such as your's.'
'Come then,' she said, motioning for him to follow her, 'I will teach the tale to you as it is remembered in my tongue.'
Turning north, she led him to the Elf-haven, which lay nestled against the shore not far from there. More lovely Randir thought Edhellond than the Grey Havens of the North, for the warm southern sun danced ever upon the white ships and houses there. As summer reached its height, Celebriel strove to teach him the ancient songs of Beleriand while they walked through the undying gardens of the haven; the tale of Ëarendil and Elwing, the Narsilion, and many stories of Valinor which had been taught by Melian beneath the eves of Neldoreth were among them. She spoke also of what little was known of the War of Wrath, and of the grace of the Valar towards the Firstborn. Of the many songs of sorrow, especially the Lay of Leithian, she would not speak, though other elves there told Randir of these tales. But while she avoided speaking of what pained her the most, Randir could see that there was great sadness in Celebriel, and that she often looked wistfully towards the sea. He felt that he should not ask any why's or wherefore's, having known her for so short a time, instead making it his purpose to distract her from brooding whenever he could; and he deemed that her laughter was worth more than all the honors he had received in Dol Amroth. So did the summer drift past, with eternal hours and fleeting days.
One afternoon, in the midst of August, while Randir was working aboard the Kirinki, Celebriel sat with Galemir, one of the most ancient elves still at the Havens. They looked out towards the sea as it sparked and flashed in the sunlight, and both were silent for a long time before Galemir spoke. 'You seem to take pleasure in your time with the Dúnadan , Celebriel. It gladdens all our hearts to see you content again.'
'Does it seem that I am so?' she asked, almost to herself, 'Randir learns quickly, and I take pleasure in his eagerness to be sure, but...' She paused, and it suddenly occurred to her that her friend was right. Her sorrow she had not forgotten, but neither had she dwelt on it, not in many days, and it alarmed her that so short a time could seem so long in her mind.
'Men have an odd virtue about them,' Galemir said at length, smiling. 'Though we are accustomed to living in memory as much as the present, these younger folk make it easier to live more in the here
and now. And it is a comfort to see their ever-renewed wonder, as our weariness grows with the years.'
'But what is the price to be paid for such comfort, Galemir?' asked Celebriel. 'The flame of our spirit in these late days is slow and steady, while their's burns bright, eager, and brief. The two may seem to compliment each other, but is it not just that their spirit seeks to make our's more alike to their's? How much would we lose for living more like them?'
'No more than you choose,' Galemir said gravely. 'Whatever was believed by some of our kind in the Elder Days, the mortality of Men is no disease, but we can choose to benefit from the way in which they see the world, if we are willing. And though we may live with them, when the last ship departs at last, we will still be as we always were. They can force nothing upon us, nor take anything that is ours by birth.'
'How can you be so sure?' Celebriel's reply was more plaintive than she had intended. 'I have not heard of any of our kind living longer lives because of their dwelling in the company of men. And too often, we seem to be diminished because of it.'
'You fear something, Celebriel, that much is plain. But what is it, and why?' Galemir asked, seeing something in her words now that he had not perceived before. 'Is it fear of sharing the fate of others that have gone before you? Such things have never happened for less than love.'
'And what if that is what I fear?' she said, standing up suddenly. 'I remember the change that overtook my mistress after she met her mortal love, as though a spell had been cast over her. Could she have rejected her fate if she had wished to do so? Or was power to resist taken from her?'
'Are these the thoughts that pursue you, Celebriel? They do no credit to your Lúthien if they are.' Galemir was growing concerned, and he watched her closely as she stood next to him. 'I remember her as well as you, if not better. No less proud than you was she, and it was with willing heart that she gave herself to Beren. It would be better for you to seek comfort in the present than to dwell in such a past, chasing after what-if's and might-have-been's.'
'Then you would have me forget!' she cried, 'But I do not wish to do so, nor to cease remembering! I do not want solace in sorrow! I wish to have back the peace which I had of old!'
Galemir stood now and faced her, and spoke sadly, 'Then you torment yourself here! The past is alive in our minds alone. We tarry on these shores as long as we might before taking the final voyage to Elvenhome, but if you wish for nothing more than to recapture something which is beyond recovery,
then Middle-earth has nothing left to offer you.'
Celebriel looked at him long and hard, but that in her eyes which might have become anger turned grey instead. Slowly she looked down and walked away through the garden. Yet as she left, Galemir called after her, 'I do not believe this to be so, Celebriel! There is light and hope enough on these shores, and you have found comfort these past weeks! Why not take pleasure in that?'
But she did not hear him. Her thoughts wandered down the corridors of memory, but even there, the illusion of peace had vanished. So instead she looked forward, as she had not done in a long age, but saw there only a fearful choice between unknowns. For she knew her heart as Galemir could not, and she wondered if what she had begun to feel towards Randir might not become what she dreaded. For she had never loved in her long life, seeing such feelings as a deep mystery to which she had no clues, and which could bring only loss. But Galemir was right in one thing, and she felt it dimly now. If she could not accept what solace there was to be had in Middle-earth, then nothing there would ever bring her peace again. Still, she resisted the decision that hung before her, and now her turmoil turned to a cold anger, even as her unguided feet brought her to the docks.
As she came to Randir's ship, she could hear him singing while he worked, his song (the words of which he had not yet fully mastered) relating the story of Tuor's coming to Gondolin and his first vision of Idril Celebrindal. Her mood hardened all the more for hearing these events recalled, and she called out to Randir from the pier. There was a clattering of tools from the bowels of the ship, and he leapt from below decks a moment later, coming to stand at the Kirinki's rail near to her. 'Greetings milady!' he said, with a smile and a bow. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I hope that you have come do to something besides chastise me for my poor voice!' He spoke with a laughing heart, but saw that Celebriel's face remained stern, and he wondered what had brought on such a mood.
She looked up at him in silence for a moment and could not decide what she felt. He was confident, sometimes arrogant, his manner belying his youth more than in most mortals she had met. But there had been other sides of him to see in their time together. He could be thoughtful, even humble, and willing to find fault in himself more quickly than one would think. She had even given him her favorite brooch, crafted like a butterfly with bejeweled wings, as a keepsake when he thought he had angered her not long before. But she looked again, and saw the brooch hanging from a chain around his neck, and found herself staring only at the chain, the sight of it filling her with a foreboding which rose quickly to anger.
'The time grows near when you must depart, Randir.' she said suddenly, trying to veil her temper beneath a chill demeanor, 'Surely you wish to be gone to see the other wonders of the Bay of Belfalas before your leave ends. Those things crafted by skill of hand, be they living or no, are not the only things of beauty to be found in this part of the world.'
Randir was taken aback by this, for she had until then spoken no such words to him, and he had almost forgotten that he would be expected back in Dol Amroth within a fortnight (indeed, he had pushed such thoughts aside with resentment whenever they came to him). Recovering from his initial surprise, he said 'Celebriel, I could spend all my days here and not find all that is wonderful. And I would not be parted from you unless needs-be.'
'And what if I would have you leave?!' she cried out suddenly. His words had struck too close to her fears, and her veil of composure vanished, 'Or will you not be satisfied until you can bring a bride home, one you deem fit for Belethrandir? Is this ever to be the way it is between the men of the Edain and the maids of the Eldar? That you should find one of us, in loneliness or joy, cast your chains around us, and have us reject the gifts of our birth? I saw my mistress suffer because of her love for a mortal, unto a death which should never have come, and I will not allow the same fate to befall me!' With that, she ran from the pier back into the gardens of the haven, leaving Randir standing aboard his ship, unmoving, as though he had been struck dead on the spot. Slowly he came to his senses and began to discern from her words Celebriel's unwillingness to speak of the tale of Beren and Lúthien. For he knew some of the story, and he saw in it the source of her grief. Head bowed in sorrow and guilt, Randir turned away from the gardens of Edhellond, in the full of their ageless bloom, and left that place forever.
Joyless did Dol Amroth seem upon his return, even as he was greeted by Lord Aradur himself and a great number of the people of the city. Grim and downcast did he seem to all as he stepped onto the docks, and they wondered what misfortune he could have encountered. But he would not speak of his travels to any, keeping to himself except when called to duty. And this seemed strange as well, for before he had ever been quick with a tale or joke, and content in all things. Yet none could pry aught from him concerning what had changed, though many who knew him said that there was a light in his eyes that had not been there before.
A year passed, through chill autumn and harsh winter into stormy spring. Both Randir and Celebriel seemed to dim daily, as though each had lost something which they believed to be irreplaceable and irretrievable. But he was luckier than she in this, for he at least had many duties to attend to, and though they did not assuage his pain and slowly began to chafe at him, they kept him from brooding too deeply. All Celebriel could do in Edhellond was pine away, for in that place there was not enough work to distract her any longer, and her walks along the shore seemed fruitless and oppressive; soon she ceased them altogether. The eternal bloom of tree and flower in that enchanted country had lost its joy for her, and even had she been less afraid, she felt that she could not have mustered the strength any longer to pursue a course to what small happiness could be left to her east of the Sea.
That summer was one later remembered, if only dimly, in the annals of the West, the 143rd since the passing of the Lord of the Rings, and that in which the first hints of the returning Shadow could be detected abroad in far distant lands. With the onset of the new season, messengers arrived in Dol Amroth with new tidings from the Harad which unsettled Aradur greatly and of which he spoke to no one but his liege in far off Osgiliath. Growing also was his concern for his friend and messenger. After deep thought on both matters, he summoned Randir to his hall, though finding him was not easy. The thought had come to him to seek out Celebriel again, though he could not have said to what end. The errand runner finally found him aboard the Kirinki, fitting it for travel once more. Randir greeted the summons with displeasure, unhappy that he was to be delayed in his desire. But his sense of duty was still strong, and he made no further complaint. The brilliant white of the Tower of Dol Amroth seemed somehow darker to Randir as he entered, and he found Aradur in a grave mood. 'My friend, I have a task of great import for you,' he said when Randir had been presented, 'hopefully greater than any that should fall to you in later years, though it may seem a small matter. I have a sealed message that you must bear with greatest speed to Círdan the Shipwright, for I have need of his council and aid. Depart with all haste. Take the fastest, strongest ship in the harbor, for the winds of the deep sea may carry you faster than those that whistle along the coasts.' Handing him a furled scroll, sealed with the mark of the city and a swan's feather, Randir was excused, feeling a sense of mission and urgency that he had long lacked, though more urgent was his desire to complete his task as quickly as he could, perhaps allowing enough of the summer for his own intents.
Bedecked in the regalia of errantry, he purposed to depart by the midday, for the wind was favourable and promised to carry him far into the bay before the sun set. He was adorned with the gleaming helm, silver mail, and white tunic of the warriors of Dol Amroth, robed with a mantle of sea blue hemmed with silver, and bore both a long, slender blade and his knife, forged with elven-skill. Celebriel's brooch, which he was never without, hung from its chain beneath his shirt. Finding only four sailors ready to leave quickly, he went to the dock to choose his ship. There he found a mighty vessel which had been named Hirilondë in honor of one of the great ships of Tar-Aldarion of Númenor; not as great as others there, yet strong and easily manned by such crew as was available. Its prow was crafted in the image of one of the great eagles of old, fashioned in memory of the ship's namesake. Its timbers were like burnished bronze, its sails were white trimmed with gold, and above it all flew the banner of Dol Amroth.
In the bright noon sun, Randir called to his friend Bereg, ordering the sails unfurled, and Hirilondë set off. Rounding the cape of Dol Amroth, they turned southwest, so as to come into the deeper waters of the bay, leaving the coast behind. As evening fell, Randir looked back to the east and saw the seaward tower like a white flame lit by the setting sun, and felt a sudden unease. But he ignored it, and went below to rest for the next day's sailing. Fair weather urged the ship on, a stiff breeze filling the sails at all hours. Two weeks only had it been after their hasty departure from the ports of Dol Amroth when they turned and, sailing at the head of a storm approaching from the west, came in sight of Lindon and the Gulf of Lune. In the rainy midmorning of the next day they sailed into the Grey Havens, and were there greeted by Círdan himself. Ancient he was, even by the measure of his people, but his eyes were bright and joyful, and his presence seemed to lighten the mood of all around him. Randir hailed him, and handed him the scroll with a sweeping bow. The ancient shipwright looked at the message in his hand without opening it, but when he looked up again he smiled.
'Come, faithful messengers. You have served your lord well, and shall rest here for a while in what comfort we can provide you while your ship is restocked for the return journey.' Each man was provided with a house of great beauty, but Randir found no peace in the Mithlond or in the company of his fellows, for all he saw around him reminded him of Celebriel. But where he desired the bright beauty that dwelt in Edhellond, Celebriel had lost all desire for anything that Middle-earth had to offer. Sorrowfully she spent each day, and the conflict in her heart gave her no rest. None of her kindred in the haven could relieve her grief, and she found that her eyes wandered more and more towards the white ships that danced in the harbor.
The five mariners stayed in Harlindon and Arnor for little over two weeks before Randir's restlessness became too great for him to hide. But still he did not hasten his men, fearing too many questions which he did not desire to answer. Instead he spent his time wandering, whether on foot or on horseback, trying to control his anxiousness. So it was that, on a bright day when Randir felt somewhat more at peace than usual, he was met by Círdan while walking near his house in Mithlond.
'Well met, mariner.' said Círdan, 'Your time of departure draws near, and I have words for you from your lord, though it is a message that you unknowingly brought.'
Randir's heart leapt at the thought of leaving, but still was his curiosity piqued, 'May these words that I have born be heard here in the street, or is more prudence needed?'
'Let us ride a while, my friend. We shall speak of them when we reach Emyn Beraid.'
'The Tower Hills? But why? If it is privacy we need, then there are many such places within a minutes walk. The hills are hours away.'
'Let us say, then, that it is the will of your lord.' said Círdan.
Slowly they rode over the grassy land, speaking of things present and long past. Night had fallen when they finally dismounted at the foot of the great hills, and climbed the steep incline to the door of Elostirion, the tallest of the three slim towers, gleaming stark white against the black sky. Círdan reached into his cloak and withdrew an ornate key, fashioned of gold. The door unlocked with a ring like that of a silver bell, and swung inward silently.
'Few of your kind have ever set foot inside Elostirion, though Elendil came often. Do you know why they came hither?'
'If any man does, they do not speak of it. I would assume they looked for ships out of the west that is lost, even as men would in Eldalondë before the Downfall.'
'You have learned much of the history of your people, Wanderer, but the stories you have heard do not tell all. Tonight you will learn the purposes of the great who have climbed the long stairs of the Tower of the Watch of the Stars.'
The stairs spiraled up almost the full height of the tower, until a landing was reached and an archway led into a circular room with tapered roof. Windows looked north, east, west, and south, but even though no light came from the night without, the whole room was bathed in a dim radiance which Randir had not seen from outside. Looking to his right, he saw the source of the illumination, a small globe set on a high, broad pedestal of black marble. Dark it looked, though it was strangely lit from within, and seemed to be made of crystal. To one side of it was a tall chair facing west, and Círdan motioned for Randir to be seated.
'Your lord has seen that, for some time now, a shadow has fallen over your life,' Círdan said at length. 'It is not uncommon among your race, the survivors of the fall of Andor, for with little provocation, a longing for that which is lost, and for the West which cannot be gained, closes around the heart of the Dúnedain, and little can bring them joy for a time. Elendil suffered greatly from this yearning, and here he came ever and anon to gain some relief, for this is one of the palantíri of Fëanor, and it looks into the uttermost West, even unto Tol Eressëa. Aradur included this request with his message to me; that if the beauty of the Grey Havens and our folk seemed to bring you no solace in your time here, that I permit you a glimpse of that furthest haven that few mortals have seen before. And though I perceive that your sorrow has other roots, perhaps the sight of Avallónë will lighten your heart's burden.'
With a sense of awe, Randir pensively grasped the stone and gazed at it. A long time it seemed while he strained to wrest some vision from the formless depths within, but even as he began to turn away from the stone, questioning its power, his mind wandered, and he thought how like the palantír was to the eyes of Celebriel. At that moment, a glimmering appeared in the center of the dark crystal. Fascinated, he tried to focus on it, and as he did so he found that it grew until he seemed to be gazing out over the dark and vast miles of the Sundering Seas, passing with unmeasured speed over the waves towards a faint point of light in the distance. As the light grew, he seemed to slow in approach to a coastal harbour. Rising before him, from a great hill in the midst of concentric half-rings of elegant buildings, was a great minaret constructed of gold-veined marble. The tower, the city, the whole island in fact, appeared awash in the light of the moon as the vision moved back and focused on the wide harbour and its lamplit quays. A great fleet of swan-ships, like those at Edhellond, were docked there, and many danced over the silver waters around the city. But the vision continued to shift, floating towards a small boat, rigged for sea-travel and gliding smoothly into the harbor. And as the deck came into view, he felt his heart stop as he saw a woman standing at its prow, silver hair streaming in the wind. She looked back into the east for a brief moment and he saw that it was Celebriel, and it seemed to him that her gaze met his own. But she turned, and the vision faded, and a whirlwind seemed to strike his mind.
He jumped from the chair, knocking the stone from its place, crying 'Celebriel!' Pushing Círdan from his path, he flew down the stairs and out the door of the tower. He bounded down the slope of Emyn Beraid, leapt onto the back of his mount, and was away. As he urged the elven-steed across the fields down towards the dimly lit harbour many miles away, he could think of nothing but to follow Celebriel. How or to what end he did not know, but he knew that something of immeasurable value had passed from Middle-earth forever, and he could not bear to remain there without it. Only three hours did it take him to reach the pier to which Hirilondë was bound. The fire in his mind had not abated, and if anything, had grown fiercer yet. Letting the horse run free, he dashed to the gangplank. But as he neared it, he saw Bereg walking down from the ship with torch in hand, and heard him call out into he half-light, 'What is the meaning of this mad haste at such an hour? Who goes there?' Randir stalked forward into the compass of the light, and Bereg shuddered to see him. A fell light was in his eyes and he was panting like a harried animal, but one ready to pounce without warning.
'Out of my path Bereg,' he said in a low voice. 'I am taking the Hirilondë.'
'Taking it where, Randir?' Bereg asked with concern. 'What has happened that you are in such a state?'
'That is my affair!' he shouted. 'Step away!'
Such anger was in Randir's voice that Bereg almost obeyed. But he was not one to be easily cowed, even by the anger of his superiors, and he stood firm. 'I may be your's to command, Randir,' he said, 'but only when you act in the name of our liege. Neither I nor this ship are subject to your whim, and unless we are all returning to Belfalas together or we have an errand from Lord Círdan, I will not leave you to take what is not your's.'
'Do not hinder me, Bereg,' Randir growled, his hand straying to his sword, 'I am in need of haste, and will be gone whether you wish it or not.'
'But what of the wish of your Lord?' Bereg said. He saw now the deadly earnest in his friend's eyes, and wondered if he was being pursued for some reason. 'We are sworn to service, Randir, and are not free to follow our every desire.'
'Damnable bondage!' cried Randir, 'I will not be held back by words. She has left Middle earth, and I must find her!' With that he leapt at Bereg, and they wrestled on the gangplank high over the water. But mighty though Bereg was, Randir was by far his match, even when at play. Now his anger was sparked by the conflict between his wants and his oaths, and he roared in his turmoil. With sudden strength, he lifted Bereg like a doll and cast him away, sending his friend plunging haplessly into the dark waters of the Lune. Bounding up onto the deck of the ship, he quickly slashed the mooring lines, setting the boat free to drift into the Gulf. The sound of the fight and of Bereg's fall had awakened those that lived near the docks, and Círdan, hot in his pursuit of Randir, had finally arrived. They dragged Bereg half-drowned and unconscious from the water, but were too late to do ought but watch the Hirilondë disappear into the dark mists over the water. A great wind rushed in from the east, and they could see the ship's white sails unfurl to catch it, but they too vanished into the black night."
Old King Gull
Old King Gull,
he ruled a realm
out in the ocean
built on a shell.
A mighty kingdom
of wave and mist
stretching North to South
and East to West.
But Old King Gull
begrudged his seas
to those who'd travel there.
And those that ventured without his leave
Did well to have a care,
for gulls would drag their boat away
and bring it to that shell
where Old King Gull did hold his court
and ruled his misty realm.
One fine day, a mariner
was brought there to that shell,
and Old King Gull did proudly stare
before he finally yelled,
"Foolish mariner, mortal man,
your fate I'll now decree,
To lie in prison beneath the waves
For trying to cross my seas."
But this mariner was a mighty man,
And feared no feathered king.
He raised his voice and drew his sword
and loud they both did ring.
"Hey, old Gull King, you hear my words;
and let me to my ship,
or by this sword, I'll sink your shell
and beneath the waves you'll slip!"
Then Old King Gull,
did laugh out loud,
'till mariner stamped his foot.
The shell did rise,
And then it dove
for Fastitacolon awoke.
Great sea beast, so long asleep
Upon whose shell once stood
The court from which the Old Gull King
Ruled over all he could.
Sad King Gull
still rules his realm.
But now his only home
is island small, or wooded helm
of ships that safely go
from North to South
and East to West
'cross watery kingdom
full of mist.
Fair Pursuits
Fleet flew the mists
o'er the wide and waved seas.
Among them walked a wanderer
Who hoped his heart to ease.
But far had he been flung by fate,
on tiring paths to toil,
til history and hope alike
had fled his mind and memory.
What he sought was wondrous fair,
this at least he knew.
But what it could be, he knew that not,
So onward o'er the seas he flew.
Through dark to day he blindly searched.
In hoary northern realms he ran,
Until at last he saw a sight
which raised his heart in hopeful joy.
A thing of beauty, fair but faint
was dancing 'pon those northern seas.
Purest white its whispy form,
an elven maid it seemed to be.
He brought the boat around to catch
this vision veiled in icy mist.
But fast it flew as he approached
And close behind it he was led.
Back into southern seas they chased,
and all along the maiden danced,
until the mariner finally found
the strength to match her flitting speed.
His hand outstretched, he called to her,
and wavering, she now came near.
In his arms he her enfolded,
Forgetting the empty, lonely years.
But like a cloud she slipped from him,
and his arms now grasped at air alone.
He helpless watched as, softly floating,
She drifted from this mortal world.
Still does the wanderer weave his path,
slowly over the weary world.
Forever seeking that beauty which
Now lives on in his mind alone
It was a chill, grey morning in December when three travelers could be seen climbing down into the vale of Rivendell by hard paths out of the North. A mist lay over the floor of the valley, and snow was falling in thick, contented sheets, softening everything beneath a blanket of white. The travelers picked their way down from the scrambling trails and moved slowly through the drooping, snow-laden pines towards the cheerfully glowing windows of the Last Homely House of Elrond Half-elven. Two stood tall and were of mighty bearing, warriors both fell and fair, strong and unwearied despite the wounds of battle each bore. The third was quite different. His back was bent as if from long travel, though it could just as easily have been from the weight of snow gathering on his tall blue hat. He leaned on a great wooden staff as he walked; his grey robes and mantle seeming to fade into the cool mist so that little could be seen of him but a great white beard and the occasional sparkle from eyes hidden beneath thickly frosted brows and a wide brim.
As they crossed the sloping sward of unmarked white that ran down from the Last Homely House to the loudly rushing Bruinen, the door opened and a fair party issued forth onto the covered porch to greet the travellers, bathed from behind in the glow of firelight.. The thought of the company and comfort of the great house hastened their steps, and soon they were kicking the snow from their boots and shaking it from hat and hair. It was not long before they had changed their clothes, stained with travel and battle, and had joined the others in the Hall of Fire.
At no time of the year did the Hall give such a feeling of comfort and joy as in the deeps of winter. The fitfully blazing fire gave off a merry glow, and the frost-traced windows looking out into the mist-shrouded pines made one feel as though weary time had, at long last, ceased to flow. All around the fire were seated the fair inhabitants of Rivendell, who filled the hall with a soft shimmering light and with the melody of their voices. After a time, the singing died down and wine was brought for all, but it was only a flicker of flame from a corner of the room that reminded the assembled elves of their visitor. Still wearing his grey mantle and with staff close at hand, Gandalf the Grey sat resting in a deep chair with his legs stretched out before him. He had just lit a finely crafted pipe, and was blowing smoke rings that danced around the vaulted chamber as if they had minds of their own. "Brilliant little people." he said softly, contemplating the pipe.
"Mithrandir!" called a golden-haired elf sitting near the fire, "Come and join us in story and song! Tell us what brings you here unlooked for, and how you came to be in the company of Elladan and Elrohir! They seem ill in the mood to tell their own tale this morn."
"Then I won't try to speak for them, Gildor," answered Gandalf, drawing long on his pipe, 'Their tale was already finished when we met in the wastes beyond the Trollshaws. Of my own, the less I speak of it the better. Into the ruins of the Kingdom of Angmar I have been, and of that fell place only to Glorfindel and the Half-elven will I speak. Why aren't they here in the Hall?"
"Both have been in Lothlórien all this past season to speak with the Lady Galadriel," replied Gildor, "Only recently did we receive word that they would return ere the break of spring."
"Well then," sighed Gandalf, only half hiding his contentment, "it seems I will be waylaid in Imladris longer than I had intended. Maybe I will join in your stories after all."
A space was made for him by the fire, and a goblet of wine was filled. The stories of Mithrandir were those most enjoyed by the elves of Rivendell. Though most they knew, he made even the most familiar tale seem almost new, bringing to it some intangible element. Something not so lofty or serene, but at the same time older and less sad.
"I take it from your silence that I'm expected to begin, as usual?" Gandalf said, chuckling into his beard. "I have been thinking about this while we three travelers trekked across the northern wastes, bringing some old tales to mind. I believe I have found one which you will enjoy, maybe even one which none of you, perhaps even in the whole of Middle-earth, has heard before in full."
"A white day is a day for the longest tales!' said Gildor, 'Do you think this story of yours will be a match for the weather?"
"Long enough, I think," Gandalf replied, raising his eyebrows and pausing in thought for a moment, "The tale is a sad one and concerns a mortal man and an elf maiden, as so many of the saddest do. The man's name was Belethrandir, and ..."
"Aha! We know his tale well in Mithlond, my friend," interrupted Galathil, an elf from the kingdom of Lindon. "And even the men of Dol Amroth remember it, after a fashion. Sad it is, but not that long in the telling."
"And didn't I say that you might hear it today in full, Galathil?" Gandalf asked, blowing a
particularly large smoke ring, "Or as full a telling as can be made, on this side of the sea. Though none in Middle-earth realizes it, there are poems and songs from far scattered lands that each reveal a glimpse of this mariner's story, if you know where and how to look. I remember many of these from my travels, and learned more than that in years even longer past. Would you care to hear what I can tell you if there's a chance that it might be new?"
Long ago in the countries of the south lived a great man among great men. He was born on the fair fields of Belfalas within sight of the sea, and his first steps, as all that followed, strayed towards the crashing of the waves and the crying of the gulls. In the days of his youth, he would run and play on the shore and in the surf within sight of the seaward tower of Dol Amroth, his golden hair gleaming in the sun. For he was a descendant from afar of the house of Hador, and the blood of that great family ran as pure in him as it had in any of the inhabitants of Westernesse.
Belethrandir was his name in later days, and he was held high among seafarers long into the Third Age, for the wisdom of the mariners of old was still fresh in the minds of men. Though his parents died while he was yet young (which was not entirely uncommon among those of Númenorean descent, as they married late), no deep shadow clouded his joy in work or play for many years. Before she died, his mother begged a nearby family to take in her son, and they did, for they held her and her husband in high esteem and were grieved by their passing. Soon, this family moved, returning to their ancestral home farther inland, a village which had stood long before the Númenoreans returned to Middle Earth. The boy came to regard all the inhabitants of this new place as his foster family, and memory of his parents might have faded if not for the heirloom which was passed to him as had been wished by his father; a keen-edged knife of elven make.
But the village was small, and the country beyond seemed vast, stirring a restlessness within him. So it was that, when he reckoned himself old enough, he bid his foster folk farewell and journeyed into the wide world. From that time after, he wandered whither he would, setting no home for himself. Rather, he would camp under the stars or, in foul weather, take board in one of the villages of Belfalas. Nigh on twenty years he lived in this manner, coming and going as he pleased, working for his keep and learning what he could of trades and lore. In this way did he earn the name Randir, as well as high esteem among most that he met in the country, though not all spoke his name kindly. To most that met him, though, it would afterwards seem as if their paths had crossed with that of a young lord in exile. But he never, in all his travels in the country of Bel, came upon the sea, and the memory of it faded from his waking thoughts.
When the years had lengthened upon him and he had reached full age, as his kin reckoned it, the desire grew in Randir to do more than herd sheep and till fields. Taking his few meager possessions, most prized among which was his elvish blade, he made ready for the journey to the gleaming city of Dol Amroth, there to take up service with Lord Aradur of the Tower. On the morning of his departure, the third day of Narvinyë (January, as we now reckon such things), he set off on the northward road, for he dwelt at that time in the southern reaches of Belfalas among the hills of Tarnost, where they came nearest to the sea. He had just passed out of the settlement that had been his home that winter when a shrill whistle caught his attention, and he saw an old man picking his way down a path from the hills, leaning heavily on a staff.
'What's this?' Randir laughed, 'What could coax Iaur the wise from his high home? Could it be to bid me a good journey? Or a good riddance, more likely.'
'Whatever strikes your fancy, whelp. I care only to see you leave.' responded Iaur, stopping his descent on a ledge overlooking the road. 'Though I wonder,' he added with a sneer, 'what whim leads your feet to the road this time?'
'More than a whim.' he said, holding his head high. I travel to Dol Amroth to place myself in the service of our Lord Aradur.'
'Ha!' Iaur replied coldly. 'You were not made for service, wanderer. At least not on any terms but your own. I doubt not that you will find service to the Lord of Belfalas more akin to bondage than you may like to think.' Iaur glared down at Randir, eyes flashing under thick brows, 'It is easier to abandon a poor farmer than it is to leave one's lord and master.'
'If such be the case, I will endure as best I can.' responded Randir in measured tones, 'But I think you may not know me as well as you believe, anymore than you understand the reasons for what I do or have done. Now, unless you care to delay your own pleasure with more words, I have a long and cold journey ahead of me.'
With that Randir bowed stiffly, turned, and continued on the road. But Iaur hobbled behind him to
the edge of his perch, shouting down at him as he went, 'What makes you think that you are worthy of service to a Lord at any rate, young ragamuffin? You think they clothe themselves in rags and hides even in the city, leaving their hair to fly uncut and unkempt? No, it is a higher folk that lives in there than you can match. They will laugh you right out the gate if you expect them to treat you as you are accustomed!'
Randir heard Iaur's spiteful taunts, though he did not so much as cast a glance back at him. But a shadow fell on his heart, for the parting words of the old man gnawed at him all the long miles to the city, until he came to fear his arrival and the reception that he would receive. He did not hasten his pace, and despite the chill winter it was nearly two weeks before he came within sight of the city, glimpsing the seaward tower first, recognizing it as if from a vague dream. Desiring to see more, he climbed a rocky slope to one side of the road, and so beheld the sea's majesty for the first time in many years, and was amazed. On its shores, the city of Dol Amroth rose to the sloping edge of the northern cape, and on that high place rose the great tower. At its feet, the land fell in a high cliff that gleamed white in the low winter sun. To the west, the land marched quickly down to the shore and the port, about which danced a multitude of white sails.
Another day's travel brought him to the open gates of the city, through which passed a constant stream of traffic, even in the winter months. Randir scarcely noticed himself passing into the place, so entranced was he by its greatness. Keeping his eyes on the tall tower where the Lord of Dol Amroth held court, he wandered the streets, passing through many parts of the city. But he had not forgotten Iaur's last words to him, and he soon felt as though the eyes of every passer-by mocked him. In the market-squares he saw the finery and beauty of the city-folk, and in the wide courts he saw wondrous fountains and gardens, and began thinking that he was worthy only to live in the wild lands as he had always done. So consumed with worry was he that he did not hear the murmuring that arose when he passed, for though he had the appearance of one just come from a long journey, his long tousled hair shone in the sunlight, and he was as tall and mighty of bearing as the doughtiest of the warriors of Gondor. And many of the people followed him at a distance, asking aloud, 'What business might this young lord have in our city?'
So it was that, with a great number of the inquisitive in his train, he reached the steps of the great seaward tower of Dol Amroth. Rumors began running through the crowd as to his origin and purpose. Some said that he was a lord of Osgiliath, others a warrior from Arnor, a few even saying with great authority that he was an elf prince from the ruined kingdom of Eregion. But none supposed to say his business as confidently, and none had the courage to ask him. So the throng followed him through the streets, stopping at the plaza outside the great tower. Slowly, Randir mounted the great stairs to the gate, and happened to look back upon nearing the top. There he stood for long moments in a daze, staring over the veritable sea of men and women crowding to see this strange man. And it seemed to him that he could hear the ocean's roar louder than before, but quickly realized that it was the swelling murmur of the crowd. Heart soaring and eyes gleaming, Randir hailed them, turned, and strode into the tower, thinking to himself, 'Iaur was wrong. The people of Dol Amroth hold me in higher esteem than I could have dreamed.'
Five long steps he took, pride building in his breast. But as his first footfall beyond the gate echoed throughout the white hall within, he stopped in amazement. The tower was among the mighty works of the men of Westernesse in the days of their greatness, a great white column raised to watch over the Bay of Belfalas. The hall in which Randir stood was high ceilinged and bright, supported by pillars all of marble, ebony, and gold. Each pillar was shaped in the form of a gracefully curving swan's neck, atop which was a head looking down and outwards, supporting the arched roof. The hall extended half of the circumference of the tower, stopping at either end with great double doors, beyond which were the barracks of the White Guard. Immediately before the front gate was a short but high corridor, arching steeply to a point and ending in huge doors of iron-bound oak, and it was towards these that Randir slowly started. As he approached them, men in bright armor and white tunics stepped forth from alcoves to either side and swung the doors open smoothly. Randir wondered why he was not questioned by these sentinels, not suspecting that rumor of his coming had already reached the tower.
Beyond the great doors was a broad circular chamber with vaulted ceiling and arching walls. All around its circumference the chamber was richly muraled, giving the impression of a view over a wide harbor, its scenes remembering the might of the armada of Númenor which had sailed against the Dark Lord in centuries long past. A carpeted path down the center of the chamber was bordered by pillars, tall and straight as ship's masts, and each row was bordered by a long clear pool over which glided white swans. Though the pillars were bedecked with lamps of silver and crystal which gave off a soft brilliance, the hall was now lit by the sun, filtering in from windows, narrow but tall, arrayed around the hall near its ceiling. Upon the carpeted middle way Randir walked, flanked behind either shoulder by guards in attire similar to that of the doorkeepers. At the far end of the hall was a low dais upon which stood a simple throne (in deference to the King of Gondor), its arms shaped as swan's wings and with a swan's head gracefully curving over the seat. A mighty man viewed his court there. No longer young in years, but not yet old, was Aradur, Lord of Dol Amroth. Clothed he was in a snowy white robe, under which gleamed a mail coat. A long graying beard reached for his belt, a slender rod was across his lap, the symbol of his high place, but he wore no crown. Randir approached the dais and knelt until he heard a laugh.
Looking up with a start, Randir saw Aradur rise, chuckling into his beard and extending one hand.
'Well met! It was said that a high lord had come to take counsel with me, but I have never met one so courteous. Rise my young friend.'
Randir stood, and he overtopped Aradur's crownless head.
'Tall and silent as well. Perhaps the tongues of my people have wagged with a bit too much imagination in this matter,' he said with a grin. 'But come, tell me your name and your errand here.'
'I am called Randir, a traveler from the fields of your land. I have come to offer my services to you.' he responded, wondering at his Lord's manner. He had expected a high and puissant man, noble and distant. All these things save one was the man before him. Rather than distant, Lord Aradur seemed almost fatherly, kind and bright of spirit, wise and content. 'But I have no sword!' he said aloud, thinking, 'Alas, my mind wanders as easily as my feet.'
Laughing again, Aradur sat. 'But you have a knife I see. Such a blade can be just as noble, when born in a noble hand.'
Randir drew the long blade from his belt and looked at it for a moment. Then, kneeling again, he presented it to Aradur. When the Lord had laid it across one knee, Randir took hold of the hilt and swore fealty after the manner of the South-kingdom, for such was the custom in Dol Amroth. Taking the knife again and resheathing it, Randir stood once more and stepped back as his liege rose as well. That knife never left his side again while it was whole.
Putting a hand on Randir's shoulder, Aradur said, 'You are now mine to command, as you well should know. And my first command is that you join me at my board. A traveler long upon the road is in need of a good break in his fast, the more so in the winter.' Turning now, Randir saw that to either side of the hall's entrance were wide staircases, ascending and curving into the heart of the tower. As they climbed, Randir told of his life and skills so that Aradur could better judge what task he was suited for. But now, with the sight and sound of the sea fresh in his mind, his talk ever came back to the days of his youth on the strands of Belfalas. The two entered a great dining hall, richly appointed, and sat to their meal, yet Aradur did not stop Randir's wandering speech, remaining silent and attentive all the while. As the tale reached its completion, Aradur began stroking his beard thoughtfully. Finally, after they had finished their meal, he spoke.
'Randir, you are of mighty lineage; your hair, face, and speech all belie it, though you know it not. Your love of Uinen is obvious, and the sea-longing is not felt so strong by any, save the Eldar, as it is by the descendants of the House of Hador. Therefore, I say to you that after you have been taught the ways of the city and the lore of recent days and those long past, you shall learn the ways of the mariner and shall be enlisted in the fleet of Dol Amroth.'
Hearing these words, Randir felt a joy that he had rarely known before. No pursuit seemed so fair to him as to tread among the waves now, and when he was dismissed and taken to one of the boarding houses of the city, he looked ever and eagerly out to the sea.
Now Dol Amroth was a great city in those days, one established during the days of the power of the Men of the West, and though it later fell, the great tower was never totally destroyed. But this stronghold was not the only fair place in Belfalas. If one followed the coast to the north, a river great and fair would be found, rushing to the sea from its springs in the Ered Nimrais far to the north. Resting on its southern shore in days of old was a green place unlike any south of the mountains. Edhellond it was called in Randir's time, the Elf-haven. Though its makers were not of the Eldar and sailed no ships, they were greatly skilled in the making of places where living things of beauty could thrive, for they came from the golden woods of Laurelindórenan. But years after its founding, some of the other kindreds came, seeking a place in which to build and sail their white ships when the weariness of Middle-earth fell upon them. And yet others came to assuage their longing for the sea, though they did not desire to depart yet.
High among them was an elf-maid, born amidst the bliss of the Elder Days in the realm of Doriath, named Celebriel. Well was she named, for her hair was silver beyond silver. It shone as mithril, flowing in the breeze like liquid metal under sun, stars, and moon. Fair she was, held in awe by her kin and by all who saw her. She loved all things that grew, especially the tall mallorn trees which were found then
only in elvish realms beyond the Misty Mountains. Her garb was green with traceries of gold, remembering those trees; for she had left them for the sea. But the crashing of the waves and the gleaming of the sand on the beach she loved almost as much. Long days would she spend walking along the shores of Belfalas within sight of Edhellond, singing and dancing under Sun and Moon, thinking only of the happiness which she had known during the Ages of Stars. The songs were of those quiet years, seeming more like the singing of the birds and the rivers than the mournful lays which came with the elves out of the West, and the dances were graceful and without care, for they were learned from Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom Celebriel was a handmaiden. But bitter she was as well, for with the passing of Tinúviel passed the peace of her heart. She was witness when the doom of Beren was laid down by Thingol, and watched the torment suffered by her mistress for the sake of her mortal lover. For this she was resentful, and it seemed to her that to follow the desire of one's heart, for the maidens of the elven-kindreds at least, was to risk discarding the gift of Illuvatar and to be diminished. So she closed her heart to all but her own memories, fearful that Lúthien's path would one day, by fate or trickery, become her own. But singing and dancing she went regardless, trying to recapture images of the days of her youth and hoping to forget her troubled heart.
Even as Celebriel tried to reclaim the peace she had lost, Randir was finding what he had always desired. In lore and skill he grew quickly, for he had learned something of everything in his days of wandering, and even more readily did he learn to love the shipboard life. Within the space of only three years he was held as the greatest mariner of Dol Amroth, and it was said that he could sail even the mightiest of ships without aid, such was his great strength and endurance. Though his achievements could be credited to himself alone, his popularity was aided by the strange nature of his coming to the city. Aradur's denouncements of the rumours that sprang up at that time never seemed quite strong enough to quell all tongues, and it was still held that Randir was a man who had a hand in many great deeds. So it was that in this time he became known as Belethrandir, the Mighty Wanderer. And ever did he strive to be worthy of the name, for he loved sailing up and down the coasts, staying in the Bay for days on end when his duties allowed. But he yet felt no weariness in his service, for that which he was commanded to do ever coincided with his own thoughts.
The next year, in the month of Nárië, when summer was yet young, Aradur made Randir his herald and emissary, the highest honor in the city; for the two had grown to be close friends, and the mariner knew much of the counsels of his Lord. But some said that Belethrandir had been born too late, for his heart ever led him to desire great deeds. Truly, it was in this alone that he was discontent, for it had been over a century since the fall of the Dark Lord, and without evil to oppose, those of strong body and brave heart may find the peace that their forebears fought for difficult to endure. Nonetheless, the winding road that Randir followed had led away from land to ride over the sea that he loved, and he had much with which to occupy himself. For with his new titles came more responsibilities and wider wandering. Often did his missions take him to Pelargir and the plains of Lebennin, to Osgiliath over the Anduin, and thrice ere the end to the broken kingdom of Lindon on errand to Círdan the Shipwright. Greatly did his pride wax, treated with honor by the highest of the high, esteemed by his own lord, and loved by his people. But still he had a mind for simpler things, and spent much time in the Bay of Belfalas. For though his eyes had seen some of the wideness of the world, those waters seemed like home to him still.
One day in the height of spring, the thought came to Randir to take the leave he was allowed by his Lord and explore the bay thoroughly, for up till then he had allowed little time to acquaint himself with the regions through which he passed. Taking a small coastal ship which he himself had built and named Kirinki (after the small, fleet birds of the West), he set off to the east, following the shore and dropping anchor often to wander here and there. On one such excursion, he decided to spend several days ashore, for the woodlands in that region were enchanting beyond any that he had yet seen, and the birds sang sweetly within. That evening a warm breeze came off the sea, the night being lit by the glimmering stars alone (for the moon had waned), the air filled with the sound of the lapping of the waves and the songs of the nightingales. Randir wondered at the forest, for it reminded him of those which he saw briefly in his two visits to Lindon, and he did not guess that he had drawn near to Edhellond, of which even he did not know. As he walked aimlessly in the faery wood, a new song was carried to his ears from the sea. Like the singing of the nightingales it was, but sweeter and more pure; for he heard Celebriel, wandering from her home as was her wont, roaming in the darkling shadows and splashing through the glittering tide. The music seemed magical to him, for it brought strange images to his mind, visions of places and times beyond the realms of mortal thought. Creeping back to the beach as silently as he could, he stood amidst the trees, and there he saw. Her hair was like a wave crafted by elvish-skill out of moonsheen, and radiance flowed from her as though she were but a veil over a living star. Words ever escaped him when he tried to recall the image of beauty he beheld that night, and only in song could he fully remember her, for at that moment he raised his own voice. Strong it was, and though untrained, the music he made seemed to merge with her's for an instant. Celebriel stopped suddenly, surprised. Her elven-eyes had marked his approach, but she had thought him one of her admirers from the haven, until he sang. When he stepped out of the trees and onto the sand, she knew him as one of the Dúnedain, and she shuddered. But she would not flee, standing tall and proud instead, fairer than any child of Men. Her eyes of seamless black gleamed in the night and they pierced Randir's heart, and though his tongue failed him, he endured her hard gaze. After a long pause, she broke the tense silence.
'There are those who would take ill to being watched from the shadows. I would rather you made your intentions plain than to have you stand there, staring and dumb.'
Her words were biting and cold, spoken in the high Sindarin tongue, not the form of the language to which Randir's ears were accustomed, for she hoped to drive away this youth who had disturbed her. His pride was hurt, but she seemed all the fairer for her indignation. Mastering himself, he spoke. 'I wandered in the forest, lady, admiring it under the light of the stars. Your singing surprised me, and I came to see what its source could be. I did not know that any of the Elder folk dwelt within 200 leagues of Dol Amroth.'
'Then from where did you suppose your city took its name? Amroth is King of Laurelindórenan and many of his folk have come south from the Golden Wood to dwell by the sea,' Celebriel answered. 'He helped in the building of your tower years ago, and so was his name bestowed on the place.'
'And here I thought myself learnéd, by the measure of men, only to find that I do not know the full history of my home.' laughed Randir, 'I hope the gulls do not bring word of this to my Lord, or he may set me to my books again, and hold me from my appointed duties until I have learned my lessons better. For the high messenger of Dol Amroth must know all that can be learned of lore and language, so that he does not risk failure in his tasks through ignorance.'
'Perhaps it would be better, then, if the gulls had voices which mortals could understand.' she said, irked, for she perceived that he hoped to impress her with his high title. 'But now that you have told me your standing in the seaward city, will you not tell me your name?'
'I have been called Randir for most of my life,' he answered carefully, justly rebuked, 'and the
people of Dol Amroth have called me Belethrandir when they believed my actions had merited such praise. And what of you, my lady? I would not know less of another than they know of me.'
'I have been named Celebriel for years beyond count, since I dwelt in Dorthonion beneath the stars, for my friends said that my hair had caught some of the radiance of that ancient place.' But her words stumbled as she spoke, and for in an instant she remembered unwillingly her sorrow, and all that the world had lost in the Elder Days. Looking down for a moment, she turned and strode away to the north, saying, 'Farewell messenger. Our words have recalled to me that which I would leave buried forever. But you know my name, if that will suffice until we meet again.' Randir watched as she went, wondering at the strange mood of this lady, the most beautiful of any he had seen. His heart was moved deeply by her sadness, and he vowed to remain in the woodlands until he should chance to see her again.
Nearly a month he spent there, living off the land, yet not daring to slay any of the animals which dwelt in that enchanted place. His time was spent singing on the shores and in the glades, and in his songs he called Celebriel by many names, clumsily composing them after the form of the Sindarin tongue, rather than his native Adûnaic; Celefíriel and Loelinven and Fëalinloé were among them. The days rushed by, but a despair settled over him, and he wondered if he would ever see the maiden again. But one day as he sat on a great rocky outcropping that thrust out into the shallow waters from the shore, watching the sun rising slowly in the west, his patience was rewarded at last. He was half-dreaming of Númenor, whose memory ever lived in the thoughts of the Dúnedain, while singing a song in which he had named the elf-maid Ufíriel. Even as it reached its end, a voice far fairer, richer, and more piercing heralded Celebriel's return. Her hair was aglow in the morning sun, and seemed like a torch in the strong sea-breeze. She sang her own song, one recounting the tale of Ëarendil, greatest of all mariners, high-father of the Númenorean race, but she stopped at his meeting with Elwing. She approached the rock on which Randir sat, the water lapping about her legs, and spoke. 'I hope you will forgive my sharpness and the haste of my departure, Dúnadan.' Randir could hardly muster the will to keep from staring, much less answer. In the morning light, it was as if Celebriel had taken on a different aspect, one just as beautiful, but also warmer and less distant. She smiled, seeing his struggle, 'I fear that not all my memories of the Elder Days are to my liking, but some are of a happier sort. Do you know the tale of the mother and father of your race?'
'I know it in book-language,' he answered, finally able to clear his head, 'though I have never heard it in a song such as your's.'
'Come then,' she said, motioning for him to follow her, 'I will teach the tale to you as it is remembered in my tongue.'
Turning north, she led him to the Elf-haven, which lay nestled against the shore not far from there. More lovely Randir thought Edhellond than the Grey Havens of the North, for the warm southern sun danced ever upon the white ships and houses there. As summer reached its height, Celebriel strove to teach him the ancient songs of Beleriand while they walked through the undying gardens of the haven; the tale of Ëarendil and Elwing, the Narsilion, and many stories of Valinor which had been taught by Melian beneath the eves of Neldoreth were among them. She spoke also of what little was known of the War of Wrath, and of the grace of the Valar towards the Firstborn. Of the many songs of sorrow, especially the Lay of Leithian, she would not speak, though other elves there told Randir of these tales. But while she avoided speaking of what pained her the most, Randir could see that there was great sadness in Celebriel, and that she often looked wistfully towards the sea. He felt that he should not ask any why's or wherefore's, having known her for so short a time, instead making it his purpose to distract her from brooding whenever he could; and he deemed that her laughter was worth more than all the honors he had received in Dol Amroth. So did the summer drift past, with eternal hours and fleeting days.
One afternoon, in the midst of August, while Randir was working aboard the Kirinki, Celebriel sat with Galemir, one of the most ancient elves still at the Havens. They looked out towards the sea as it sparked and flashed in the sunlight, and both were silent for a long time before Galemir spoke. 'You seem to take pleasure in your time with the Dúnadan , Celebriel. It gladdens all our hearts to see you content again.'
'Does it seem that I am so?' she asked, almost to herself, 'Randir learns quickly, and I take pleasure in his eagerness to be sure, but...' She paused, and it suddenly occurred to her that her friend was right. Her sorrow she had not forgotten, but neither had she dwelt on it, not in many days, and it alarmed her that so short a time could seem so long in her mind.
'Men have an odd virtue about them,' Galemir said at length, smiling. 'Though we are accustomed to living in memory as much as the present, these younger folk make it easier to live more in the here
and now. And it is a comfort to see their ever-renewed wonder, as our weariness grows with the years.'
'But what is the price to be paid for such comfort, Galemir?' asked Celebriel. 'The flame of our spirit in these late days is slow and steady, while their's burns bright, eager, and brief. The two may seem to compliment each other, but is it not just that their spirit seeks to make our's more alike to their's? How much would we lose for living more like them?'
'No more than you choose,' Galemir said gravely. 'Whatever was believed by some of our kind in the Elder Days, the mortality of Men is no disease, but we can choose to benefit from the way in which they see the world, if we are willing. And though we may live with them, when the last ship departs at last, we will still be as we always were. They can force nothing upon us, nor take anything that is ours by birth.'
'How can you be so sure?' Celebriel's reply was more plaintive than she had intended. 'I have not heard of any of our kind living longer lives because of their dwelling in the company of men. And too often, we seem to be diminished because of it.'
'You fear something, Celebriel, that much is plain. But what is it, and why?' Galemir asked, seeing something in her words now that he had not perceived before. 'Is it fear of sharing the fate of others that have gone before you? Such things have never happened for less than love.'
'And what if that is what I fear?' she said, standing up suddenly. 'I remember the change that overtook my mistress after she met her mortal love, as though a spell had been cast over her. Could she have rejected her fate if she had wished to do so? Or was power to resist taken from her?'
'Are these the thoughts that pursue you, Celebriel? They do no credit to your Lúthien if they are.' Galemir was growing concerned, and he watched her closely as she stood next to him. 'I remember her as well as you, if not better. No less proud than you was she, and it was with willing heart that she gave herself to Beren. It would be better for you to seek comfort in the present than to dwell in such a past, chasing after what-if's and might-have-been's.'
'Then you would have me forget!' she cried, 'But I do not wish to do so, nor to cease remembering! I do not want solace in sorrow! I wish to have back the peace which I had of old!'
Galemir stood now and faced her, and spoke sadly, 'Then you torment yourself here! The past is alive in our minds alone. We tarry on these shores as long as we might before taking the final voyage to Elvenhome, but if you wish for nothing more than to recapture something which is beyond recovery,
then Middle-earth has nothing left to offer you.'
Celebriel looked at him long and hard, but that in her eyes which might have become anger turned grey instead. Slowly she looked down and walked away through the garden. Yet as she left, Galemir called after her, 'I do not believe this to be so, Celebriel! There is light and hope enough on these shores, and you have found comfort these past weeks! Why not take pleasure in that?'
But she did not hear him. Her thoughts wandered down the corridors of memory, but even there, the illusion of peace had vanished. So instead she looked forward, as she had not done in a long age, but saw there only a fearful choice between unknowns. For she knew her heart as Galemir could not, and she wondered if what she had begun to feel towards Randir might not become what she dreaded. For she had never loved in her long life, seeing such feelings as a deep mystery to which she had no clues, and which could bring only loss. But Galemir was right in one thing, and she felt it dimly now. If she could not accept what solace there was to be had in Middle-earth, then nothing there would ever bring her peace again. Still, she resisted the decision that hung before her, and now her turmoil turned to a cold anger, even as her unguided feet brought her to the docks.
As she came to Randir's ship, she could hear him singing while he worked, his song (the words of which he had not yet fully mastered) relating the story of Tuor's coming to Gondolin and his first vision of Idril Celebrindal. Her mood hardened all the more for hearing these events recalled, and she called out to Randir from the pier. There was a clattering of tools from the bowels of the ship, and he leapt from below decks a moment later, coming to stand at the Kirinki's rail near to her. 'Greetings milady!' he said, with a smile and a bow. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I hope that you have come do to something besides chastise me for my poor voice!' He spoke with a laughing heart, but saw that Celebriel's face remained stern, and he wondered what had brought on such a mood.
She looked up at him in silence for a moment and could not decide what she felt. He was confident, sometimes arrogant, his manner belying his youth more than in most mortals she had met. But there had been other sides of him to see in their time together. He could be thoughtful, even humble, and willing to find fault in himself more quickly than one would think. She had even given him her favorite brooch, crafted like a butterfly with bejeweled wings, as a keepsake when he thought he had angered her not long before. But she looked again, and saw the brooch hanging from a chain around his neck, and found herself staring only at the chain, the sight of it filling her with a foreboding which rose quickly to anger.
'The time grows near when you must depart, Randir.' she said suddenly, trying to veil her temper beneath a chill demeanor, 'Surely you wish to be gone to see the other wonders of the Bay of Belfalas before your leave ends. Those things crafted by skill of hand, be they living or no, are not the only things of beauty to be found in this part of the world.'
Randir was taken aback by this, for she had until then spoken no such words to him, and he had almost forgotten that he would be expected back in Dol Amroth within a fortnight (indeed, he had pushed such thoughts aside with resentment whenever they came to him). Recovering from his initial surprise, he said 'Celebriel, I could spend all my days here and not find all that is wonderful. And I would not be parted from you unless needs-be.'
'And what if I would have you leave?!' she cried out suddenly. His words had struck too close to her fears, and her veil of composure vanished, 'Or will you not be satisfied until you can bring a bride home, one you deem fit for Belethrandir? Is this ever to be the way it is between the men of the Edain and the maids of the Eldar? That you should find one of us, in loneliness or joy, cast your chains around us, and have us reject the gifts of our birth? I saw my mistress suffer because of her love for a mortal, unto a death which should never have come, and I will not allow the same fate to befall me!' With that, she ran from the pier back into the gardens of the haven, leaving Randir standing aboard his ship, unmoving, as though he had been struck dead on the spot. Slowly he came to his senses and began to discern from her words Celebriel's unwillingness to speak of the tale of Beren and Lúthien. For he knew some of the story, and he saw in it the source of her grief. Head bowed in sorrow and guilt, Randir turned away from the gardens of Edhellond, in the full of their ageless bloom, and left that place forever.
Joyless did Dol Amroth seem upon his return, even as he was greeted by Lord Aradur himself and a great number of the people of the city. Grim and downcast did he seem to all as he stepped onto the docks, and they wondered what misfortune he could have encountered. But he would not speak of his travels to any, keeping to himself except when called to duty. And this seemed strange as well, for before he had ever been quick with a tale or joke, and content in all things. Yet none could pry aught from him concerning what had changed, though many who knew him said that there was a light in his eyes that had not been there before.
A year passed, through chill autumn and harsh winter into stormy spring. Both Randir and Celebriel seemed to dim daily, as though each had lost something which they believed to be irreplaceable and irretrievable. But he was luckier than she in this, for he at least had many duties to attend to, and though they did not assuage his pain and slowly began to chafe at him, they kept him from brooding too deeply. All Celebriel could do in Edhellond was pine away, for in that place there was not enough work to distract her any longer, and her walks along the shore seemed fruitless and oppressive; soon she ceased them altogether. The eternal bloom of tree and flower in that enchanted country had lost its joy for her, and even had she been less afraid, she felt that she could not have mustered the strength any longer to pursue a course to what small happiness could be left to her east of the Sea.
That summer was one later remembered, if only dimly, in the annals of the West, the 143rd since the passing of the Lord of the Rings, and that in which the first hints of the returning Shadow could be detected abroad in far distant lands. With the onset of the new season, messengers arrived in Dol Amroth with new tidings from the Harad which unsettled Aradur greatly and of which he spoke to no one but his liege in far off Osgiliath. Growing also was his concern for his friend and messenger. After deep thought on both matters, he summoned Randir to his hall, though finding him was not easy. The thought had come to him to seek out Celebriel again, though he could not have said to what end. The errand runner finally found him aboard the Kirinki, fitting it for travel once more. Randir greeted the summons with displeasure, unhappy that he was to be delayed in his desire. But his sense of duty was still strong, and he made no further complaint. The brilliant white of the Tower of Dol Amroth seemed somehow darker to Randir as he entered, and he found Aradur in a grave mood. 'My friend, I have a task of great import for you,' he said when Randir had been presented, 'hopefully greater than any that should fall to you in later years, though it may seem a small matter. I have a sealed message that you must bear with greatest speed to Círdan the Shipwright, for I have need of his council and aid. Depart with all haste. Take the fastest, strongest ship in the harbor, for the winds of the deep sea may carry you faster than those that whistle along the coasts.' Handing him a furled scroll, sealed with the mark of the city and a swan's feather, Randir was excused, feeling a sense of mission and urgency that he had long lacked, though more urgent was his desire to complete his task as quickly as he could, perhaps allowing enough of the summer for his own intents.
Bedecked in the regalia of errantry, he purposed to depart by the midday, for the wind was favourable and promised to carry him far into the bay before the sun set. He was adorned with the gleaming helm, silver mail, and white tunic of the warriors of Dol Amroth, robed with a mantle of sea blue hemmed with silver, and bore both a long, slender blade and his knife, forged with elven-skill. Celebriel's brooch, which he was never without, hung from its chain beneath his shirt. Finding only four sailors ready to leave quickly, he went to the dock to choose his ship. There he found a mighty vessel which had been named Hirilondë in honor of one of the great ships of Tar-Aldarion of Númenor; not as great as others there, yet strong and easily manned by such crew as was available. Its prow was crafted in the image of one of the great eagles of old, fashioned in memory of the ship's namesake. Its timbers were like burnished bronze, its sails were white trimmed with gold, and above it all flew the banner of Dol Amroth.
In the bright noon sun, Randir called to his friend Bereg, ordering the sails unfurled, and Hirilondë set off. Rounding the cape of Dol Amroth, they turned southwest, so as to come into the deeper waters of the bay, leaving the coast behind. As evening fell, Randir looked back to the east and saw the seaward tower like a white flame lit by the setting sun, and felt a sudden unease. But he ignored it, and went below to rest for the next day's sailing. Fair weather urged the ship on, a stiff breeze filling the sails at all hours. Two weeks only had it been after their hasty departure from the ports of Dol Amroth when they turned and, sailing at the head of a storm approaching from the west, came in sight of Lindon and the Gulf of Lune. In the rainy midmorning of the next day they sailed into the Grey Havens, and were there greeted by Círdan himself. Ancient he was, even by the measure of his people, but his eyes were bright and joyful, and his presence seemed to lighten the mood of all around him. Randir hailed him, and handed him the scroll with a sweeping bow. The ancient shipwright looked at the message in his hand without opening it, but when he looked up again he smiled.
'Come, faithful messengers. You have served your lord well, and shall rest here for a while in what comfort we can provide you while your ship is restocked for the return journey.' Each man was provided with a house of great beauty, but Randir found no peace in the Mithlond or in the company of his fellows, for all he saw around him reminded him of Celebriel. But where he desired the bright beauty that dwelt in Edhellond, Celebriel had lost all desire for anything that Middle-earth had to offer. Sorrowfully she spent each day, and the conflict in her heart gave her no rest. None of her kindred in the haven could relieve her grief, and she found that her eyes wandered more and more towards the white ships that danced in the harbor.
The five mariners stayed in Harlindon and Arnor for little over two weeks before Randir's restlessness became too great for him to hide. But still he did not hasten his men, fearing too many questions which he did not desire to answer. Instead he spent his time wandering, whether on foot or on horseback, trying to control his anxiousness. So it was that, on a bright day when Randir felt somewhat more at peace than usual, he was met by Círdan while walking near his house in Mithlond.
'Well met, mariner.' said Círdan, 'Your time of departure draws near, and I have words for you from your lord, though it is a message that you unknowingly brought.'
Randir's heart leapt at the thought of leaving, but still was his curiosity piqued, 'May these words that I have born be heard here in the street, or is more prudence needed?'
'Let us ride a while, my friend. We shall speak of them when we reach Emyn Beraid.'
'The Tower Hills? But why? If it is privacy we need, then there are many such places within a minutes walk. The hills are hours away.'
'Let us say, then, that it is the will of your lord.' said Círdan.
Slowly they rode over the grassy land, speaking of things present and long past. Night had fallen when they finally dismounted at the foot of the great hills, and climbed the steep incline to the door of Elostirion, the tallest of the three slim towers, gleaming stark white against the black sky. Círdan reached into his cloak and withdrew an ornate key, fashioned of gold. The door unlocked with a ring like that of a silver bell, and swung inward silently.
'Few of your kind have ever set foot inside Elostirion, though Elendil came often. Do you know why they came hither?'
'If any man does, they do not speak of it. I would assume they looked for ships out of the west that is lost, even as men would in Eldalondë before the Downfall.'
'You have learned much of the history of your people, Wanderer, but the stories you have heard do not tell all. Tonight you will learn the purposes of the great who have climbed the long stairs of the Tower of the Watch of the Stars.'
The stairs spiraled up almost the full height of the tower, until a landing was reached and an archway led into a circular room with tapered roof. Windows looked north, east, west, and south, but even though no light came from the night without, the whole room was bathed in a dim radiance which Randir had not seen from outside. Looking to his right, he saw the source of the illumination, a small globe set on a high, broad pedestal of black marble. Dark it looked, though it was strangely lit from within, and seemed to be made of crystal. To one side of it was a tall chair facing west, and Círdan motioned for Randir to be seated.
'Your lord has seen that, for some time now, a shadow has fallen over your life,' Círdan said at length. 'It is not uncommon among your race, the survivors of the fall of Andor, for with little provocation, a longing for that which is lost, and for the West which cannot be gained, closes around the heart of the Dúnedain, and little can bring them joy for a time. Elendil suffered greatly from this yearning, and here he came ever and anon to gain some relief, for this is one of the palantíri of Fëanor, and it looks into the uttermost West, even unto Tol Eressëa. Aradur included this request with his message to me; that if the beauty of the Grey Havens and our folk seemed to bring you no solace in your time here, that I permit you a glimpse of that furthest haven that few mortals have seen before. And though I perceive that your sorrow has other roots, perhaps the sight of Avallónë will lighten your heart's burden.'
With a sense of awe, Randir pensively grasped the stone and gazed at it. A long time it seemed while he strained to wrest some vision from the formless depths within, but even as he began to turn away from the stone, questioning its power, his mind wandered, and he thought how like the palantír was to the eyes of Celebriel. At that moment, a glimmering appeared in the center of the dark crystal. Fascinated, he tried to focus on it, and as he did so he found that it grew until he seemed to be gazing out over the dark and vast miles of the Sundering Seas, passing with unmeasured speed over the waves towards a faint point of light in the distance. As the light grew, he seemed to slow in approach to a coastal harbour. Rising before him, from a great hill in the midst of concentric half-rings of elegant buildings, was a great minaret constructed of gold-veined marble. The tower, the city, the whole island in fact, appeared awash in the light of the moon as the vision moved back and focused on the wide harbour and its lamplit quays. A great fleet of swan-ships, like those at Edhellond, were docked there, and many danced over the silver waters around the city. But the vision continued to shift, floating towards a small boat, rigged for sea-travel and gliding smoothly into the harbor. And as the deck came into view, he felt his heart stop as he saw a woman standing at its prow, silver hair streaming in the wind. She looked back into the east for a brief moment and he saw that it was Celebriel, and it seemed to him that her gaze met his own. But she turned, and the vision faded, and a whirlwind seemed to strike his mind.
He jumped from the chair, knocking the stone from its place, crying 'Celebriel!' Pushing Círdan from his path, he flew down the stairs and out the door of the tower. He bounded down the slope of Emyn Beraid, leapt onto the back of his mount, and was away. As he urged the elven-steed across the fields down towards the dimly lit harbour many miles away, he could think of nothing but to follow Celebriel. How or to what end he did not know, but he knew that something of immeasurable value had passed from Middle-earth forever, and he could not bear to remain there without it. Only three hours did it take him to reach the pier to which Hirilondë was bound. The fire in his mind had not abated, and if anything, had grown fiercer yet. Letting the horse run free, he dashed to the gangplank. But as he neared it, he saw Bereg walking down from the ship with torch in hand, and heard him call out into he half-light, 'What is the meaning of this mad haste at such an hour? Who goes there?' Randir stalked forward into the compass of the light, and Bereg shuddered to see him. A fell light was in his eyes and he was panting like a harried animal, but one ready to pounce without warning.
'Out of my path Bereg,' he said in a low voice. 'I am taking the Hirilondë.'
'Taking it where, Randir?' Bereg asked with concern. 'What has happened that you are in such a state?'
'That is my affair!' he shouted. 'Step away!'
Such anger was in Randir's voice that Bereg almost obeyed. But he was not one to be easily cowed, even by the anger of his superiors, and he stood firm. 'I may be your's to command, Randir,' he said, 'but only when you act in the name of our liege. Neither I nor this ship are subject to your whim, and unless we are all returning to Belfalas together or we have an errand from Lord Círdan, I will not leave you to take what is not your's.'
'Do not hinder me, Bereg,' Randir growled, his hand straying to his sword, 'I am in need of haste, and will be gone whether you wish it or not.'
'But what of the wish of your Lord?' Bereg said. He saw now the deadly earnest in his friend's eyes, and wondered if he was being pursued for some reason. 'We are sworn to service, Randir, and are not free to follow our every desire.'
'Damnable bondage!' cried Randir, 'I will not be held back by words. She has left Middle earth, and I must find her!' With that he leapt at Bereg, and they wrestled on the gangplank high over the water. But mighty though Bereg was, Randir was by far his match, even when at play. Now his anger was sparked by the conflict between his wants and his oaths, and he roared in his turmoil. With sudden strength, he lifted Bereg like a doll and cast him away, sending his friend plunging haplessly into the dark waters of the Lune. Bounding up onto the deck of the ship, he quickly slashed the mooring lines, setting the boat free to drift into the Gulf. The sound of the fight and of Bereg's fall had awakened those that lived near the docks, and Círdan, hot in his pursuit of Randir, had finally arrived. They dragged Bereg half-drowned and unconscious from the water, but were too late to do ought but watch the Hirilondë disappear into the dark mists over the water. A great wind rushed in from the east, and they could see the ship's white sails unfurl to catch it, but they too vanished into the black night."
Old King Gull
Old King Gull,
he ruled a realm
out in the ocean
built on a shell.
A mighty kingdom
of wave and mist
stretching North to South
and East to West.
But Old King Gull
begrudged his seas
to those who'd travel there.
And those that ventured without his leave
Did well to have a care,
for gulls would drag their boat away
and bring it to that shell
where Old King Gull did hold his court
and ruled his misty realm.
One fine day, a mariner
was brought there to that shell,
and Old King Gull did proudly stare
before he finally yelled,
"Foolish mariner, mortal man,
your fate I'll now decree,
To lie in prison beneath the waves
For trying to cross my seas."
But this mariner was a mighty man,
And feared no feathered king.
He raised his voice and drew his sword
and loud they both did ring.
"Hey, old Gull King, you hear my words;
and let me to my ship,
or by this sword, I'll sink your shell
and beneath the waves you'll slip!"
Then Old King Gull,
did laugh out loud,
'till mariner stamped his foot.
The shell did rise,
And then it dove
for Fastitacolon awoke.
Great sea beast, so long asleep
Upon whose shell once stood
The court from which the Old Gull King
Ruled over all he could.
Sad King Gull
still rules his realm.
But now his only home
is island small, or wooded helm
of ships that safely go
from North to South
and East to West
'cross watery kingdom
full of mist.
Fair Pursuits
Fleet flew the mists
o'er the wide and waved seas.
Among them walked a wanderer
Who hoped his heart to ease.
But far had he been flung by fate,
on tiring paths to toil,
til history and hope alike
had fled his mind and memory.
What he sought was wondrous fair,
this at least he knew.
But what it could be, he knew that not,
So onward o'er the seas he flew.
Through dark to day he blindly searched.
In hoary northern realms he ran,
Until at last he saw a sight
which raised his heart in hopeful joy.
A thing of beauty, fair but faint
was dancing 'pon those northern seas.
Purest white its whispy form,
an elven maid it seemed to be.
He brought the boat around to catch
this vision veiled in icy mist.
But fast it flew as he approached
And close behind it he was led.
Back into southern seas they chased,
and all along the maiden danced,
until the mariner finally found
the strength to match her flitting speed.
His hand outstretched, he called to her,
and wavering, she now came near.
In his arms he her enfolded,
Forgetting the empty, lonely years.
But like a cloud she slipped from him,
and his arms now grasped at air alone.
He helpless watched as, softly floating,
She drifted from this mortal world.
Still does the wanderer weave his path,
slowly over the weary world.
Forever seeking that beauty which
Now lives on in his mind alone