Well here it is the sequel to Tale of the Last Son! For those who have not read the previous story, this one starts off in medias res (In the middle of things) so you might need to read the former to get the jist of what is happening.
Disclaimer: Many of the characters are of Tolkien's creation, even the thinly drawn characters, such as the Ithryn Luin, and belong to his credit. Others, especially Celebrin, are of my own creation.
Please Read and Review, tell me what you thinkg I value it greatly.
What song shall I sing?
For all is lost and the waves of the sea
Have taken all my life.
Its charring melody has drawn all
From my side, leaving me barren,
As the desert wind leaves the earth,
Before the coming of the rain.
One thousands years after the defeat of Sauron, the deceiver, at what was once called The Last Battle, the empires of men had risen to their fullest glory, built so high upon the shoulders of the land of Eriador and the southern realm of Gondor, that one could not help but look at their height and wonder-When will they fall? Generations of mortals passed their lives, living in the beauty of their kingdoms, and yet all was not well. Two kingdoms once joined by the rule of one, now were parted into four, three in the north and one in the south, and the kin argued amongst themselves as to who had the right to claim their kinghood. For to the south lay the line of Isildur, first born son to Elendil, who died at the beginning of that age; and to the north, three sons descended from the line of Anarion, second son of Elendil, divided their father's kingdom amongst themselves. Yet to the elves, first born of the Earth's children, these matters cared little, for their kingdoms remained unchanged by the winds of time, and no matter how many times the stars rotated in the sky their lives endured and joy was lived in among their peoples. Yet Darkness grew in the realms of the elder kin, and shadows returned to haunt the forests of old. Fangorn, eldest of the last remaining great forests, was no longer inviting to the weak of heart, for it was said demonic beings haunted the trees and sorrowful moans of anger resonated among its chamber like halls of trees. Greenwood, became wrought with shadows, and all who traveled through it, be they dwarf or mortal, came to loath the roads that led through its ancient woven trees. The world had changed, the old ways passed away with the dawning of the reign of men, and the kingdoms of the elves were now without kings, save for one, tucked away in the net of Greenwood, that daily was besieged by great spiders, as if the ancient dark days had returned.
And in Mithlond, the sun would set day by day, bringing with it new occurrences and the city would once again be full of life, only to subside as a new year came around, for the sea wearied some, with its ever present call. And they would seek out new shores or the woodlands in the east. Eriador was inviting to these people, who came from lands, having lived hundreds, if not thousands of years before the elders of their kind were even but a thought. Yet Mithlond was more often than not the end of journeys, rather than the beginning of them. And the Gardens of Farewell were made abundant, forged by the hands of they who would depart from the world they had known for two ages or more.
One-thousand years after the beginning of the third age of the world, the sun began to set behind the plains of the ocean and stars appeared in the open valley of the sky as the wind blew through the gentle limbs of the cypress trees before the entrance to the hall of Cirdan. And sitting on a richly carved marble bench sat an elf whose downcast eyes watched as the sun set lower beyond the horizon. His raven dark hair blew freely in the parting winds, and his melancholic voice sang a tune of sorrow, broken with time and age; he sat facing the Path of Cirdan, his eyes transfixed on the harbor below him. His face was flawless as any of his kind save for one scar upon the right side of his face, in the form of a crescent, a tear of blood and skin that never healed in all the years of his life. His name is now lost among the voices of the mortals, seldom do any of his own kin remember his name, those who once did, have passed the confines of the world or are now silent airs upon wind. He rejoices not this day, nor had he rejoiced for two years hence, for the heart beneath his breast was broken and he cared little for the world without. And the sun set, leaving the world wrapped in slumber and nightshade, and the watcher's raven hair shimmered in the light of the fully waxed moon, its slender strands reflecting and refracting the silver moonlight, into small patterns of stars, mirroring the twilight of the world. He sighed as the falling of the sun and the rising of the moon brought the lighting of the Towers of Cirdan, symbols for ships at sea to heed the rocks before the sacred cove, and that the haven was closed to outside traffic, no more ships would come that day.
"Why do you sit here day by day, Perion? Always watching the harbor for signs of a return? You yourself said…"
"I am tired."
The voice behind him was deep and hale, aged with many years of knowledge and livelihood by the sea's edge. The lordly figure's stature was tall and he balanced the centuries long pearl white hair gracefully upon his crownless head, save for a small blue band rimmed with silver that he wore as a symbol of his lordship of the lands and the haven. Yet the elf before him, a youth compared to him in years, spoke so insolently that a lesser lord would have flogged the youth for such an action; but this figure only sighed in a muted shame, stopping the youth where he stood, hoping to continue their brief conversation.
"Celebrin…"
"Do not lay a hand on me. I gave you no such right."
"How long will you treat me as such? I did nothing…"
"Nothing…you call what happened nothing! For two years I have watched the shores to see for any sign of his return, and I find none…as far as I am concerned you sent him to his death."
"Perion…"
"You are not allowed to call me by that name! I have no father, save one whose mutilated body lies at the bottom of the ocean floor!"
And with that the raven haired elf stormed from the presence of the elven lord who had raised him from the time he was orphaned over an age of the world ago, and he stroked his new beard that had only recently begun to grow longer than stubble, and he too sat upon the gray-marble bench and watched the fires of the Towers light the dark and abysmal sea beyond.
"A sail! A sail!! A sail upon the dark sea!"
Sleep was broken that night by a horn blow from the harbor and the call of the guard, many lights lit the windows of buildings in the city, and the Hall of Cirdan lit its tower flame, a beacon that could be seen from any direction, whether by land or sea. The city was awakened from its dreams, yet the uneasy slumber of Celebrin was broken not by the call of the horn, but by memories of war and death, of blood and fire. Panting he awoke covered in his own sweat, and upon hearing the horn of warning he quickly dressed in his robe and as if by instinct and ran to the hall of Cirdan where many representatives from the different houses and kindreds gathered around the throne of the Shipwright, questioning as to why they were awakened from their slumber. One elf, whose bright ruddy hair and dark hazel eyes were aflame with indignance as he called out to the white haired lord,
"Cirdan! Why were we awakened from our sleep! There is no ship, it is the dead of night!"
"Calm your self, Cullofea…it was not I who called you from your high home upon the hill, but the wardens at the arms of the cove. I do not know their intent for blowing the horn of warning. It is possible they were alarmed by a whale close to the cove or they saw something beyond the haven that is worth speaking of."
Then a gasping and trembling elf entered the hall coming to the steps below the seat of Cirdan and struggling to make out words to the noble lord before him. Cirdan walked down to the elf and called for water; having drunk from the glass, the elf was inquired by Cirdan, who helped him to his feet,
"What is it you saw Gildor? Was it you who blew the horn?"
"I…Indeed it was…hir Cirdan…I saw a sail…a white sail, bearing the mark…of the lonely Isle."
Cirdan froze where he stood until his name was called out by the ruddy haired noble-elf, and his first words were,
"Return to you homes…I shall handle this myself."
The grudging elves exited the grand hall leaving Cirdan sitting in his chair, holding his forehead in his hands. Celebrin alone was left in the hall with him, having helped Gildor from the hall; he hesitated at first to say something, yet he set his eyes to the floor and turned to walk out of the hall. Then a voice called to him,
"Per…Celebrin, please stay here… I may need you near the end."
Hearing these words made Celebrin sigh, debating whether or not to defy his lord's command- so much hate boiled beneath his breast, loathing for this ancient, gentle elf who showed nothing but kindness to him; and yet, so too did this lord, knowing full well what would come to pass, betray any bond they had as father and son.Even soCelebrin remained behind, his back turned to the elven lord, standing as a silent guard, though he was dressed in naught but a robe of gray and silver fabric. It was not long before there came a knock at the great door, and they were opened by elves from the tower guard who themselves escorted five cloaked figures, who surprisingly stood taller than their escorts.
At first the guards of the towers looked frightened by the mere presence of these tall figures, though one of them was bent as an old man, leaning heavily upon a staff made of gnarled wood, and wore on his head a gray pointed hat, and a fine gray robe wrapped around his frame. At the head of this odd train strode a tall elderly looking man with a small beard; he was dressed in pearl white, pure and unblemished by any stain, even at his feet, yet he bore a black staff and from his wily eyes one could discern power unimaginable, and few even among the elves could discover his thought at any moment. Behind him stooped the gray figure, as noble as the former, even though his back was bent by some unknown weight, yet his eyes spoke not of power but of laughter and joy bubbling at the surface of the water in his eyes. Behind him, side-by-side, walked two figures dressed in hues of blue; their robes were of similar pattern, though one's main hue was of darker shades of blue, and the other lighter shades. In their clear blue-gray eyes one felt the force of the wind and the rushing of the river water as it leapt from the precipice of a cliff or a canyon. Their mood was quiet and alone one would seem not as important as the other two before them, yet together they spoke of an other worldly power, as if plucked from the bottom of the sea and the highest of the airs. These two Celebrin watched more intently than the others, for to him they were wrought with the soul of freedom in their veins, the freedom of the wind and water that broke mountains and moved the impressive oak to its whim. Behind them walked, with a joyful grin upon his face, a shorter figure, dressed in a simple brown robe wielding a staff made of simple wood; his image made Celebrin want to smile, something he had not done in years, for it was full of happiness and joy, as if he had not tested storms or was weighed down by worries.
Before the seat of Cirdan they stood, until the ancient elf at last stood, and spoke to them as in all matters as he would any traveler,
"Greetings travelers from a distant land, I am Cirdan, the Lord of Mithlond, and this…is Celebrin, head of the tower guard…Tell me what is your business here?"
The white one spoke in a voice as seductive as the call of the immortal sea, bidding all lesser in mind to follow his words,
"Lord Cirdan of Mithlond, we have heard much about you- all of it in high regard…we have come, great lord, as messengers sent from the land farthest west of your own, that lies on a path none may trod save they born before it was marred. Our names- we have none to give in this world- and we come by orders kept most confidential by the powers of the world. Though we bring word, your time of peace is fast coming to a close, the darkness once defeated has returned and all must be done to keep the mistakes of the past from returning…"
Even Celebrin found his words to be music, yet Cirdan glared at this being before him, no doubt surprised by his presence, yet unmoved by the honeyed word from his mouth, instead he looked at the bent figure dressed in gray.
"This I know strange traveler, nothing is done in Ennor that does not pass my ears…my question to you is, why came you to a land you know not of, to bring a message that is ever present in our eyes?"
To this the gray one stood tall upon his staff and spoke in a voice as ancient as the former, yet kinder and more real than anything, while the other was a treat for the mind, his was a treat for the heart, awakening the very soul of whom he spoke to.
"Our quest is simple Cirdan,son of Cuvienen, we have been sent to help you in this time of growing darkness, though it seema littletrifflenow. To be honest, we have come to tip the balance of the coming shadow, one that will test the fabric of all people in this world."
"Why come to the Eldar, gray traveler? Our power here is less than it once was…our kings of old are gone, and our kingdoms and peoples divided, weary of war, and, at times, weary of life."
"Because…it was the Eldar who knew the powers first…and it is the Eldar who hold influence over the younger minds of men, though this Alliance is fast coming to a close. The future now stands upon the edge of a knife, the darkness is gathering as we speak, and you are the gate keeper to the west, the last of whom the Powers trust whole heartedly…they remember the folly of men, and trust them less than they once did."
"You speak true Mithrandir... for your honesty you have earned my trust…what do you require great ones from across the sea?"
All this Celebrin watched hearing of the gathering shadow, his eyes never leaving the gathered five, white, gray, blue and brown; he heard all that was said, and stood silent until their discussion went late into the night: chairs were brought for the five to sit upon, though they did not look weary at all. Celebrin stood in the darkness, watching all that unfolded before his eyes, history in the making, and he leaned upon one of the great stone columns, his thoughts turning from the past to the present, remembering from the days of his youth eyes of gray that looked out to him from a distance, borne by one of the majestic creatures his foster-father called maiar. And he questioned their coming, and what it foretold of how the road that was straight remained open, knowing now for certainhis companion lay not at the bottom of the immortal sea, and instead lived in bliss where he himself would not dare to step foot on. And sorrow took him again, the longing of his heart reaching out beyond what he witnessed and he heard the song of the sea, calling to him, in a hollow and whispering voice
Give yourself to me! My cold, cold grasp will cool your impassioned heart and ease your wounded sorrow…cast yourself into me and go to the grave of they who left you, caring not for what they left behind.
In his waking dream Celebrin's breaths began to heave, feeling the cold of ice surrounding him, and images of twisted and mutilated beings- once fair as he was- prodding the floor as common fell beasts. The scar upon his cheek began to sting, and his vision soon became blurred and he found himself short of breath. And he ran out of the hall, causing the travelers to stand at his alarm; Cirdan bid them sit and excused himself from their presence, signaling the servants to bring food and drink for these guests.
Andthe shipwrightfound Celebrin gasping for air, leaning heavily upon an ancient cedar; he began to speak, helping Celebrin to a bench nearby,
"Come, it is the sickness, it has been dormant for so long, it has had time to brew…"
"Do not touch me! I am not a child to be helped at all times."
"I am trying to help you because you are ill Celebrin."
"Well don't, you have guests return to them…I will be fine."
And Cirdan assented to this, leaving the young elf sitting upon the bench, wiping a trail of blood streaming from his right cheek. He buried his head in his hands and wept, his mood turning quickly from anger to sorrow, so quickly, it left him disturbed and agitated. Then a gentle voice from behind him spoke out, its accent denoting ancient Noldorin, and its flavor as if from beyond the sea, knowing two lives and being in one,
"Are you the son of Uial? Who is the lone kin to Cirdan, the Lord of this land?"
And Celebrin turned to see a shimmering face, as pale as the light of the white sun, and whose hair shimmered golden as elanor in the fields of Lorien; this traveler looked as if he was plucked from out of legend, for indeed he bore the description of a fabled hero in the tales of the Noldor Celebrin heard so many times with reverence from his former companion. The elf stood tall yet his downcast face looked straight into Celebrin's speaking of an ancient connection, Beleriand, fortheancient landwas written in their eyes. Celebrin looked into this elf's hazel eyes and said,
"Yes, I am he."
The golden-haired elf sat beside him, and handed him a white handkerchief, with which he wiped the blood from his reopened wound. There was silence between them at first as the sea air whirled around them, embracing them in its coolgrasp, yet the Golden haired elf spoke at last,
"I have searched for you from the time I stepped off the ship, yetfew here knew of you or if they did they knew not where to find you. And so I searched going from garden to pavilion, seeking out the name of Celebrin, rather your many other names, to no avail, for it seemed that even at this late hour, you were forgotten-vanished fromt he face of the earth. I heard you were the kin of Cirdan, and so I came here hoping to find you…If it is no insult to you, I must say you exceed your description Uialion."
"What do you want?"
"I was sent by one who bid me with all his will to give you this,"
The elf took from his belt an item wrapped in a scarlet fabric, which was embroidered with the figures of flying swans; this sash Celebrin knew well and quickly unwrapped what was inside. Having done so he saw a brooch in the form of a swan in flight, made of a rare black stone, and edged with mithril and silver, winding this way and that upon it as visible wisps of air. The brooch of Alphindil lay in his hands as it once did years ago, when they parted ways in times of war, unsure of whether they would see one another again. At the sight of this jewel tears strew down his face and he hid these from the stranger, shamed of how he acted, so sorrowful, so childish. Yet the golden-haired elf laid his arm around him, giving him support unlooked for, saying,
"I see by your reaction you are the elf this was meant for…Do not be ashamed for the tears you cry, I heard your tale of sorrow, and wept myself on hearing it. This was given to me for you, with a message, ' Though our paths are parted, my friend,and our hearts as well- may this be a reminder of happier times, when innocence was in our hearts. Even as your gift to me is cherished, cherish this also.'... Do not be ashamed of your tears, for not all tears are evil."
The golden-haired elf stood from where he sat and headed toward the doors of the great hall, yet before he walked two steps Celebrin spoke, keeping his gaze upon the brooch,
"What is your name traveler?"
"I was called Glorfindel in earlier times, though in this age and time, my name may very well be so as well Uialion."
"Call me Celebrin, it is my true name."
"I shall...Celebrin…goodnight"
"Goodnight... Glorfindel"
And with that he turned and entered the hall; Celebrin stood from where he sat and walked down the path and turned at the ancient stone fountain before the two cypresses that lay before the way to the Hall, and he went to his house, that stood a short way off, and opened the door to darkness. He lit a small lamp and gazed at the brooch in his hand, touching every detail with his fingers, smelling the sash it came wrapped in, its scent carrying him through years of memories until its final end. Cursing his weakness he threw the objects into a box that stood on the mantle piece and placed it under his bed, wishing not to see it; and he lay on his bed, burying his face into his pillow, still holding the blood stained handkerchief in his hand.