Glorfindel scrutinized the large parchment map on the wall in Círdan's tower. Through the open window drifted the sounds of Mithlond harbour: the song of the círyn, the voices of fishermen and merchants, both elven and mortal, blending with the cries of seagulls and the splash of the waves against the wharves and hulls of ships.

Sadly, the ancient mariner's map told the balrog slayer no more than those in the library of Imladris had.

Only three islands showed off the coast of Lindon.

Himring.

Tol Fuin.

Tol Morwen.

He knew there were dozens upon dozens of smaller islands, mostly barren and uninhabited. It amazed him that after over three thousand years, the Teleri under Círdan had made no detailed maps of this archipelago.

He stared at the expanse on the map that was the ocean around the three isles. Beneath it lay the drowned lands of his birth and his first life.

"If Tol Fuin is what remains of the Mountains of Terror south of Dorthonion," said the warrior, "Then Gondolin should be…here." His finger traced a line east of Tol Fuin on the map.

Círdan shook his head. "'Tis not so simple, mellon-iaur," said the ancient bearded one. "When the Valar destroyed Beleriand, it did not merely sink 'neath the waves. The very foundations of the earth shifted as Angband and Thangorodrim were swallowed into the depths. There were high places brought low, and other lower-lying lands lifted up. Thus is it that Tol Morwen breaks the surface of the sea, whereas the Crissaegrim lies beneath the waves. Nor might they lie where they once were. The sea beds shifted with the drowning of Elenna and the bending of the world."

"So… this isle that is sung of… does it exist? Or is it just a figment of a bard's imagination?"

Surely, if anyone knew, it would be the ancient Shipwright.

But to his dismay, Círdan slowly shook his head. "Our ships sail not there, mellon-iaur. I have heard no more than what the songs say, just as you have. I am sorry,"

The Shipwright's great ocean-worthy white ships were built for one journey: into the West. His people's fishing vessels seldom ventured far beyond the Gulf of Lune, while his merchant ships plied routes to Gondor in the south, and no further north than Forlond.

"So… all I can do is to go there chasing the whispers of a legend and a song." Glorfindel gazed pensively at the spot on the map where the Echoriad had once been.

"There is a ship of edain merchants leaving for Forlond in three days. You could take passage with them, and pay for it by offering your services as a warrior—protection against pirates."

The golden head turned towards Círdan, the blue eyes suddenly sharp and alert. "Pirates?"

The mariner's ancient sea-grey eyes twinkled.

And the greatest elven warrior in Ennor grinned in anticipation.

After a fond and touching farewell between horse and rider, Glorfindel left Asfaloth to wander free in the green, open meadows around the Tower Hills overlooking the gulf—until the day he would return.

Then he made his way back to Mithlond harbour, boarded a thirty-rangar vessel with fifteen edain –crewmen and merchants—and set sail for the northern coast of Ennor.

And indeed there were pirates on the voyage. Glorfindel slew none, but disarmed and bound them, took their ship, and upon their docking at Forlond marched them to the constabulary for incarceration.

At Forlond, he haunted the wharves and the taverns, and struck up conversation with many. Someone, surely, had heard of an island with the grave of an elven warrior. And yes, the legend was known. But none knew if the island were real, nor knew of rumour where it might lie. And curiously they eyed his height and his golden hair and his sword, and wished him well in finding it.

So then he sought a ship willing to take him into the islands. And thus began a five-year-long odyssey from island to island.

There were long interruptions from storms, particularly in the winter.

At many places, a fruitless seeking of clues, and a long wait for a ship for the next leg of his journey.

On Tol Morwen, he saw the graves of the Hapless, but none again knew aught of his own.

On Himring, he spent his first winter, and admired the millennia-old ruins of the Fëanorian stronghold of Maedhros, and wondered if any ruins of Gondolin or Vinyamar yet endured.

The Egladhrim of these northern waters were shy of strangers—especially a tall, golden-haired Inlander with a strange accent. Slowly, at each stop, he would work to win their trust and their friendship. And so the warrior learned of their scattered settlements on many small islands over hundreds of leagues of ocean.

The Egladhrin mariners sailed these waters from memory. On pieces of parchment, as he travelled, Glorfindel's map of this archipelago grew.

He narrowly avoided shipwreck several times, and fought off pirates thrice.

During long months wintering in small settlements of both elves and mortals, he would tell the tales of the lands of Ennor and its people, and sing them the tragic and glorious songs of the Last Alliance, and the Siege of Barad-dûr.

But above all, he sang of Gondolin—of its fall, and the battle of a warrior with a balrog on a high mountain pass.

Finally, in a small settlement fifty leagues off the north coast of Tol Fuin, an Egol with green eyes and dark-honey brown hair approached him after he ended his song one night in the island's one inn.

"There is a friend of mine who has spoken of a place with such a legend. The island where his mother was born is named Tol Mellys, for golden flowers cover an ancient hero's grave there."

Glorfindel's face brightened. "Where may I find this friend of yours?"

Glossary

Mellon-iaur (S) – old/ancient friend

Note:

I really do mean Himring, not Himling as on most of the maps, as the former is the name that Tolkien replaced the latter with.