Chapter 6
Círdan, clad in a robe of silver and blue, stood upon the shore of the sea, his back toward the land, and his face gazing westward as Elros descended the stone steps toward him. He held something in his hand, but Elros could not see what it was, with the silver-haired elf's back toward him.
"Greetings, Elros, son of Eärendil," Círdan said without turning, and Elros stopped, just as he dropped off the last step onto the sandy shore.
"Greetings to you, my lord," he said, and the ancient elf turned.
The silver of Círdan's thin beard, rare for an elf, curved up with his own smile behind it. Within the silver-haired elf's hand, Elros noted now, was a single pearl, white and gleaming, between Círdan's thumb and forefinger. His eyes found Elros' and the young elf grew still for a moment as he met the ancient elf's eyes, and studied the deep pools of wisdom there, remembering that this elven man who stood before him, was one of the first elves to have awakened in the beginning of the world.
Elros' expression must have given the wise elf something to laugh at, for Círdan did, coming forward to clap a hand upon Elros' firm shoulder.
"Ah, son of Eärendil, do not look on me with such awe! We are friends, you and I, and I am not one of the Valar! Come with me to the house, where Elrond, no doubt, is waiting for us, having settled himself comfortably with a book, somewhere."
The ancient, ageless elf turned Elros up the trail lined with waving grasses that descended down the slope of the hill, and toward the white-stoned building at the crest of it, where the ancient shipwright dwelt.
"Your journey went well, I trust?" Círdan asked as they walked.
"Quite well, my lord," Elros added.
He looked at the stones beneath their feet as they climbed, seeing Círdan's studious eyes upon him out of the corner of his eyes.
"You passed the storm comfortably? You do not look as travel-worn as I would expect, had you weathered the storm last night in some makeshift shelter in the forest."
"Yes, my lord," Elros added, feeling slightly nervous beneath the ancient shipwright's discerning gaze. He drew in a breath. "An old mortal woman and her young ward sheltered us in their dwelling during the storm."
"It was most kind of them," Círdan said in a warm voice. "The Secondborn may have been marred, but there are yet those who are good and noble among them."
Elros nodded at this. "Indeed," he agreed, recalling the gleam of the fire off of Andreth's unbound hair, and the smooth curves of her face and throat. Remembering though where he was, he shook himself, and glanced aside at his silver-haired friend. Círdan grinned again, clapping Elros on the shoulder.
"You are looking forward to supper, I hope?" Círdan asked as they continued to climb. "My servants have prepared an especially delicious meal in anticipation of your arrival."
"Certainly," Elros assured the elven shipwright, remembering the night before, feasting on Andreth's stew, warm and comfortable as the storm raged outside her hut. Círdan's servants would be hard-pressed to make a more pleasant meal.
"That pearl you're holding," Elros said, struggling to keep his focus on Círdan, rather than the fair memory of the mortal maiden. "What is its significance?" He nodded to the gleaming pearl in Círdan's hand.
Círdan lifted the pearl again, studying it with somber eyes, as keen in their sight as they had been the day he had awakened.
"I am pleased you asked," Círdan said, studying the smooth white gem in his hand. "Its coming was most unusual, though. I found it, washed up on the beach only a few minutes before your arrival at the sands where you just found me. A gift from Ulmo. It came into my mind, when I reached down and picked it up, that you, young Elros, are uncertain about a great decision that you have before you. And it came to my understanding that this will help you in making your choice."
Círdan studied the small round gemstone a moment longer, then held it out to Elros. "Here. It is yours."
Elros accepted the pearl wordlessly, and held it in his palm, testing its weight. Its surface was unmarred, gleaming and white, with the faintest rainbow sheen to it, as he had seen in other pearls. It was not entirely round though, as he had thought at first, but neither was it without symmetry as he had seen in some unevenly shaped pearls. Rather, this pearl tapered slightly at one end to a smooth, rounded point, giving it the uniform, and distinctive shape of a raindrop.
Other than its miraculous shape, there was nothing about it that suggested that it held any mystic power or wisdom that would help him determine whether he should continue his life as an immortal elf, or choose a mortal life. He felt nothing when holding the smooth gem, other than its weight, which was not great.
"A gift from Lord Ulmo himself?" Elros asked. "To- me?"
Círdan squeezed the youthful elf's shoulder. "You speak as if you would be surprised at such a gesture."
"I am," he admitted. "I am only-,"
"The son of Eärendil, the great mariner," Círdan interrupted kindly, "of the noble lady Elwing. I need not even say that you are the descendant of Tuor and Idril, and Beren and Lúthien, whose many brave and noble deeds could fill volumes."
"But I am not them," Elros protested. "Their deeds should not count to my honor."
"Your deeds during the War of Wrath were brave, and noble enough to do credit to your own honor Elros," Círdan assured him. "And your noble deeds are not ended, for you have the seeds of greatness in you. The Valar know what you are capable of, son of Eärendil."
Elros closed his hand around the pearl, smooth and cool against his fingers. "And I want to do what is best. For it is a weighty choice that has been given to us. My Lord Círdan, we have been given the power to choose between mortality, or immortality."
Círdan's eyes widened at this. "Ahhh," he breathed. "You have been given the choice of Lúthien, your ancestress. Indeed, that is a weighty responsibility. What are Elrond's thoughts?"
"Elrond knew almost immediately that he wished to live the life of the Firstborn," Elros said, despondent.
Círdan's brow furrowed sympathetically. "And you feel discouraged, because you are not yet certain which path you should follow?"
Elros nodded. "His choice may have something to do with his dreams. But I am not blessed wth such clear answers as he-,"
"Dreams?" Círdan encouraged.
Elros furrowed his brow. "Elrond has often spoken of an elven maiden with silver hair and fair skin who sometimes inhabits his dreams." He paused, hesitant, but Círdan nodded for him to continue, his eyes showing keen interest.
"He sees her as from a distance, and he cannot reach her, but he says he knows every detail of her face, and will know her when he meets her. He feels that this dream maiden represents a real woman, and I think he may fancy himself in love with her, and hopes to wed her when they meet, though he hasn't said as much."
Círdan nodded thoughtfully his steps slowing. Elros slowed his own to match the elder elf. "Now and then," the ancient shipwright murmured, his eyes thoughtful, "as with Thingol and Melian, or Beren and Lúthien, or even your own father and mother, there are those whose meetings seem almost foreordained, as if their souls were fashioned by the All Father, one for the other. It would not be surprising if your brother has a similar destiny, and the woman Elrond is to marry one day, or at least her image, mayhap her unborn soul, does inhabit his dreams, and is calling to him. Perhaps he would do well to wait for her, centuries even, if she is not born yet. I cannot say, for I am not Elrond. But his dreams may have, perhaps, helped him so quickly to know that he is meant to choose to remain an immortal elf, and live until the world's ending."
Elros drew in a breath that swelled his chest, and held it a long moment before releasing it again. "I cannot claim of any such lucid dreams as my brother can. I do not fancy any elven maid, living or unborn. And I cannot say for certain, yet, which path I am to take. But I do believe there is one destiny that is meant for me, upon which, I can do the most good for this world, that I could not do were I to choose the other."
Behind his beard, Círdan pursed his lips, his eyes growing thoughtful a long moment, before he smiled again. "Elros, you are wise not to choose your path so quickly before searching out your own mind and heart to their very depths. Do not think it a shame that you must wait a little longer to choose your path. Be patient with yourself, and when you do know your choice, it will not be wrong."
The two elven men reached the level bluff, and the lights shining from the windows of Círdan's dwelling beckoned to Elros, promising warmth and rest.
Círdan grinned encouragingly upon the younger elf. "The Valar are aware of you, and of the good heart you possess, Elros. And the pearl will help you. Somehow." The ancient shipwright grinned, and his eyes danced with humor. "Though for all the world I cannot say, for I am not you."
He squeezed Elros' shoulder. "Come, I can smell supper now, and it is making my stomach rumble."
Elros grinned and nodded, striding along with Círdan's arm still on his shoulder toward the lighted house, his fist still closed tightly around the pearl.
...oOo...
The cry of gulls filled the air, and the sweet scent of the ocean came welcome into her lungs as Andreth walked along at Firiel's side, her leather shoes tapping against the paving stones beneath her feet.
Andreth drew in another breath as she lifted her eyes, gazing up at the silver and grey buildings and turrets that made up the maritime haven of Mithlond. To her right, circling the buildings here on the northern edge of the river, rose a long wall of silver grey stone, watch towers spaced evenly along it. Its western edge curved back toward the river Lhûn.
To her left, she could see the placid flow of the River Lhûn, widened here into a deep, peaceful bay before flowing gently through a wide passage formed by two rising cliffs of rough grey stone, into the greater Gulf, and on westward, into the sea. Towers rose on both cliffs, though upon the north side, the towers were not complete, though she could see scaffolding circling one unfinished tower, and forms of men moving busily about. She could see a triangular crane hefting a heavy stone into the air, and could hear the faint creak and strain of ropes as a heavy stone, dangling from taut ropes, swung slowly to a space in the wall, the crane lowering it into its space. Across the distance between the unfinished tower and herself, the soft thump of the stone found her ears a moment later.
Nearest to her, the streets teemed with people, mostly of the elven race, men and women with smooth features, and bright or dark hair, drawn back in braids or gilded combs from their elegant, peaked ears. Now and then, though, there was a mortal or two. There were, Andreth noted, more women than men of each race, reminding her of the war that had passed, and which had claimed so many valiant lives, not just her own father's. And in the eyes of many of the women, the elven women especially, there was a shadow of sorrow that saddened Andreth, for she understood it well. They, like she, had lost someone, perhaps more than one, whom they cared for; a brother or father, a husband or son.
But elves, she reminded herself, were capable of rebirth, and could, if they chose, return again to life one day. Her own father, though, was gone where her mother had gone, beyond the circles of the earth, beyond the stars, somewhere. Elves always had the hope of seeing their loved ones again upon Arda. Andreth, though, knew she would not see her father again, until her own death.
"If my memory serves, that is Círdan's house," Firiel said at her side, interrupted her thoughts.
Andreth looked to where her old friend pointed, seeing a house of white stone beyond the walls of the city, rising above her, upon a bluff overlooking the waters of the wide Gulf, standing almost like a palace, three towers rising grandly into the air as gulls circled about them.
"Oh my," Andreth gasped, pulling up short. "And he lives there, all by himself?"
"Bless me, no," Firiel chuckled. "He has servants. Of course, as I understand it, they are more as children to him than servants, and he always has guests coming and going."
"Oh, Firiel," Andreth moaned. "I could not begin to live in such a house as that. Such richness. If Lord Círdan even wishes to permit me to live there." She looked down hopelessly at her dress, her best one, of blue cotton, though it looked now to her, to be hopelessly plain. The fabric was not coarse, but neither was it as fine as many of the gowns of the elven women she passed. And these women were commoners, not so fine and lordly as Círdan. The scooped neck had no elegant embroidery, and in the sleeves that hung open at her wrists, there was a small tear that she had patched where she had torn it last year on a nail during the autumn festival at a neighbor's farm. The patch had never seemed large to her before, but now it stood out to her, painfully. "I have never-,"
"Come," Firiel laughed, looping her arm through Andreth's, and turning the stunned maiden onto the road that wended upward toward the shipwright's dwelling.
Andreth drew in a deep breath, and clutched the bundle she held closer to her, feeling inadequate and plain. She followed Firiel's lead though, trusting her old friend, as Firiel guided her away from the crowded street, and up the sloping lanes and rising stone steps that led ever closer to Círdan's large dwelling. Firiel led her through an open gate in the wall of Mithlond, the crowds thinned, and the stone pavement beneath her feet gave way to earth once more, the haven of Mithlond falling behind as they rose up the hill.
The hill was steep as they climbed, and the sun overhead, nearing the mid-day point, warmed the earth below it. In the early morning hours, the earth had been cool when the two women had risen, earlier than usual; Lavaniel still sleepy when Andreth had milked her, and set her loose to wander where she would. But now, the day was far warmer than it had been in the morning when they had started out, and to her chagrin, Andreth felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine beneath the cloth of her gown.
Please, she pleaded in her mind, if only I am not dripping with sweat when I meet Círdan!
As she drew nearer, Círdan's large house growing more impressing and intimidating with each step she took toward it, a large stable for horses began to come into view as the path the two women followed curved along the side of the rising bluff. And from the back of the house, she saw stone steps now, that led down a grassy slope to the bluegreen waters of the vast Gulf that lapped rhythmically at the edge of a wide stretch of smooth white sand that led away, bending beyond her sight around the bluff upon which the house stood. A surge of curiosity pulsed through her, overcoming, for a moment, her fear and uncertainty. What would she find, Andreth wondered, if she were to walk that stretch of sand and round that grassy hill?
But her trepidation returned in a moment, for the earthen path she and Firiel walked along, reached the crest of the hill at last, and bent now toward the house, where stood a large oaken door, adorned with carvings and decorative plaiting that looked very much like gold. Andreth swallowed hard.
She could hear the voices of horses now, their gentle whickers coming from the stable which stood not far to her right. As if aware of the newcomers, the heads of a few horses lifted over the doors of their stalls to gaze curiously at the nearing visitors, and whicker friendly sounding greetings.
One equine face, a stallion's she was certain, appeared over the edge of its stall, and caused Andreth to pause. The copper-colored fiery coat seemed familiar, and most especially its eyes. But she did not focus on the bright eyed, fiery coated horse for long, for in the next stall beside it, there appeared a white face, thinner, and with soft eyes. A mare, Andreth guessed, with a long, flowing mane of silver.
Her eyes met the mare's and held, and Andreth sensed a feeling of welcome, and of friendship. She smiled, and fancied that she saw a smile returned in the eyes of the white horse.
"Here we are," Firiel said, pausing at the steps of the house.
Andreth looked up the steps toward the large carven door, and swallowed.
"What if Círdan does not like me?" she protested. "What if he is too occupied to trouble himself with a ward, Firiel?"
Firiel snorted softly, though her eyes were encouraging as she turned toward Andreth, and squeezed her hand. "It is not likely that he will dislike you, unless he is a fool, and I know Lord Círdan is anything but a fool. And you are not an infant who will need constant care. You can feed and look after yourself, and I am certain that regardless of how occupied he is, he will make time enough for you. You are, remember, of the house of Bëor, and your father Beldir was Círdan's friend. You met the great elven lord as an infant, even if you do not remember, and he liked you then. You are here, chiefly, for your own learning, to associate with wise scholars, and become acquainted with all manner of good books. Círdan values learning and teaching, and I am certain he would welcome you just for that, even if you were not Beldir's daughter."
Andreth drew in another sigh, but said nothing as Firiel started up the steps, her arm still looped through Andreth's.
The old woman stopped at the door that rose several lengths above her head, lifted a gnarled hand, took hold of a massive, golden knocker, and clapped it against the door three times.
Andreth winced as the sound echoed hollowly from within, but she stood her ground as soft footsteps drew near, and the door slowly creaked open.
The kindly eyes of a young-looking elven woman met them. "Greetings, friends," she said warmly, though her face betrayed surprise at the sight of two mortals. "May I be of any help to you?"
"We are seeking Lord Círdan," Firiel said in return. "Is he at home?"
The woman sighed, and her eyes grew apologetic. "I fear not. He and his friends are in the city, helping to build one of the light houses."
"Ah," Firiel's voice suddenly sounded weary. "We have just left there. We saw men upon scaffolds near an unfinished tower."
"They will not be home until the evening," the elven woman apologized. "Though you are most welcome to rest yourselves, and wait for Lord Círdan's return. I am named Aelin, and I will be happy to see to any needs you may have, Mistress-"
"I am Firiel, widow of Hamar," Firiel said, dropping in a slight curtsy, "And this," she turned toward Andreth, who did not miss the playful grin upon her thin lips, "is Andreth, daughter of Beldir, of the house of Bëor."
To this, a visible change came over the elven woman, and her eyes widened in quiet awe as she studied Andreth now with a gaze that was almost reverent.
"My lady," she murmured, her voice grown soft. She dropped in a curtsy to Andreth. "It is an honor, truly, to receive one of your house. Your father as I remember, was a good friend to Lord Círdan. And you were here yourself once, not long ago, though you were an infant, then. Lord Círdan will be pleased to see you again."
Andreth's eyes widened in numb surprise, and she turned toward Firiel, seeing the old woman's wrinkled face gleaming in triumph.
"If it pleases you, please, come in." The elven woman stood aside and gestured into what Andreth could see, was a spacious hall, leading into the heart of the house. To one side of the large hall, a grand staircase curved up and away into passages she could not see. Her heart throbbed within her. Was she indeed being welcomed, almost as royalty, into such a fine house as this?
"Forgive us, but we must speak to Lord Círdan first," Firiel said, regret lacing her voice. "You see, I- the Lady Andreth, had hoped to stay here in Mithlond, perhaps as the ward of Lord Círdan for a time, perhaps a full season or more, so that she might acquaint herself with all manner of learning available here in the havens. I have been her caretaker these past years since her father's death. I must depart before midday, and it would be most ungracious if I left her here, without the leave of your lord."
"I see," Aelin said with a nod of understanding. "Well, I do not doubt that good Lord Círdan would not be unwelcome to a visit now, were you to go to the tower he is helping to construct. I fear I cannot leave my twining, but Maidh would be happy to guide you there, I am certain."
Maidh? Andreth wondered. Who was Maidh?
The elven woman stepped out onto the stone of the porch before the door, and glanced toward the stables.
"Maidh!" she called, lifting a beckoning hand. "Come here, my friend!"
At her bidding, the white mare Andreth had seen before, tossed her head within the stall where she stood, and stepped forward, pushing the door open and outward with her long, sleek nose, and clattering out onto the stony pathway before the stable. The horses were not constrained to stay in their stalls, Andreth realized, her heart filling with wonder and pleased surprise as the mare, shapely and beautiful, trotted forward of her own will, her white tail flicking as she came, her hooves crunching the stones beneath her feet.
"There, good friend," Aelin said. "These ladies wish to be guided to Lord Círdan. Can you take them there?
What looked like a smile touched the lovely eyes of the horse, and she lifted her head, tossing her mane, and whinnying in obvious pleasure.
Aelin turned with a smile to Andreth and Firiel. "She says she would be pleased to take you."
...oOo...
The sun, now past her zenith, heat the earth below while Andreth walked beside the patient white horse upon which Firiel was mounted. Her aging friend sat upon a tooled leather saddle, and reins rested in her hands, though they were not needed as the horse followed a path she knew along the stone tiles of Mithlond, guiding Andreth toward the incomplete grey tower rising upon the finger of rock that jutted into the bay. Andreth drew in a breath, tasting the sweet salty tang of the air, and lifted her eyes to the ragged walls. Even unfinished, and encircled by intricate tiers of scaffolding, the grey stone tower was impressive.
Scores of men walked or climbed among the scaffolding, working on the unfinished wall. Most of them were elven, their long dark or fair hair pulled smoothly back behind their tipped ears, and tied to trail in long tails down their backs, while a few were dark or tawny-haired mortals with rounded ears like her own. Many of the workers, both elven and mortal, clearly affected by the sun's warming rays as she was, had shed their shirts and tunics, and worked only in breeches and boots, their chests and backs bare and gleaming with sweat. Others were still clad in loose linen shirts damp with persperation, and clinging with dust.
Andreth swallowed, for she had felt since her leaving the bluff north of the city, a steady trickle of sweat trailing down her spine or down her throat, and she had given up all hope of meeting Lord Círdan as the sweet, presentable maiden she had hoped she would appear.
Maidh stopped with a clapping of her hooves on the edge of the work area, where, not far away, three men stood with their backs toward the women. Two of them, a silver-haired elf and a dark-haired elf poured over plans layed before them on a large, unfinished block of stone. Their companion also dark-haired, stood a short distance away, finishing the last knots of rope around a smaller, smoother block of stone that rested on the ground. Ropes that trailed up from it, dangled from the long neck of the massive wooden crane Andreth had seen from a distance earlier, that would, when the block was secure, hoist it to its place on the rising wall of the lighthouse it was destined to be.
The silver-haired elf wore a finely woven robe, and seemed hardly affected by the heat of the day. His companion wore a loose white tunic, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening his collar. But their comrade, busily securing and testing the knotted ropes, had elected as others of his comrades had, to cast aside his shirt altogether.
His long hair, tied back with a leather string, hung forward over one thickly muscled shoulder, and Andreth swallowed stiffly, unable to see his face with his back to her, though the peaked tip of one ear was visible, showing him to be an elf. Try as she wished, she was unable to ignore the way the elf's lean muscles shifted beneath the skin of his back as he worked, the corded sinews of his arms and shoulders bunching and shifting beneath the smooth surface of his skin with each movement, like ripples on the surface of a quiet pond. A single trail of sweat slid down the valley of his spine to his lean waist where a faint line of persperation had darkened the hem of his breeches, hanging low about his narrow hips. Though her new elven friend Elros and his brother Elrond were probably not anywhere near here, Andreth could not help but imagine that this fair, strong elven man, whose face she could not see, was in fact Elros himself. But such thinking was nothing more than a silly, girlish fancy. Lord Elros, though he was somewhere in Mithlond, could not be-
Maidh, in what seemed a burst of impatience, whinnied shrilly, interrupting Andreth's warm fantasy, and scraped a hoof over the stone tiles at her feet as she tossed her bright mane.
The elf with the silver hair and his companion turned immediately, and Andreth's eyes darted to the dark-haired elf, her mouth falling open as she recognized Lord Elrond. His silver-haired companion she did not recognize, though instinctively, she knew him to be Círdan, the very elf she had come to see, for his kindly face, though ageless, carried the wisdom of uncounted centuries, and he bore, as she had often read, a slight, silver beard.
Andreth's thoughts burst in a miriad of directions, like shattered glass. If this was Elrond, then who- who was the other dark haired elf, if not in very fact- Her thoughts could not remain coherent, and she despaired as Lord Elrond smiled in surprised recognition, and raised his hand in greeting while the silver haired elf smiled, and strode toward her and her companions.
"Lady Andreth!"
The youthful voice had not come from Elrond. Rather, the breathless greeting had come from behind Elrond as the elf who had been securing the knots about the finished stone, turned and came trotting forward. Elros' bare chest heaved with deep breaths and gleamed with persperation as he neared them and slowed to a stop. His sea grey eyes, shining with surprised welcome, fixed upon Andreth as he dropped his hands to his hips.
Elros, himself.
Her heart choked within her, bursting in a sudden rush of wild ecstacy and terror. The very elven man whose masculine beauty she had allowed herself to grow distracted by, was indeed the very man she had imagined him to be! Lord Elros himself. Elros! In one moment she wished both to sing, and to turn and flee away, at once.
The corded muscles of Elros naked chest and stomach were infinitely more distracting than the sinews of his back had been, especially more so now that she knew him to be the very man whom she had secretly hoped, and it was with wrenching effort that Andreth tore her eyes away. She looked down the slope of the city toward the gleam of the waters of Lhûn, fixing her eyes upon the dancing waves flickering with the light of the sun.
"Ah!" Círdan greeted, his glad tones of pleased welcome giving no hint that he was aware of Andreth's discomfiture. "It is indeed, young Andreth, daughter of my dear friend, Beldir?"
Andreth tore her eyes from the water, and fixed them studiously upon the silver haired elf. "Yes, sir- my lord," she barely managed, struggling to keep her eyes upon him, though she could see Elros out of the corner of her eye.
"I am glad to see you once again, my child, though you have changed much in the few years since our last meeting," Círdan continued. "You have blossomed like a flower, though you are far more lovely than any bloom of Yavannah's making."
Involuntarily, her eyes darted now to Elros, finding his eyes. They were soft and warm, and a faint grin pulled at one corner of his mouth as her gaze met his. A single line of sweat trailed slowly down the strong sinews of his throat and over the chiseled sinews of his naked chest. What would it be like, she wondered wildly, to reach out, and brush that trail of sweat away? What would his skin feel like?
Rending her eyes back to the older elf, she managed a smile. "Thank you, my lord."
"And good Firiel," Círdan greeted, lifting his eyes now to Firiel where she sat upon Maidh's back. "It is pleasant to see you again as well."
"It has been many years, my lord," Firiel offered with a nod of her head. "I do not look as I once did when my husband and I were young. And my feet are not as quick."
Círdan smiled gently. "You eyes are as bright as ever, my friend."
Firiel smiled and nodded her head in thanks. "You are very kind, my Lord Círdan. And it is for that reason that my ward Andreth and I have come to Mithlond to seek you out."
"I am glad," Círdan answered warmly. Andreth swallowed fiercely at the graciousness and generosity in his tones. "But indulge me, I pray. To what do I owe the honor of your welcome visit?"
"I have come, hoping to learn, my lord," she said, struggling to keep a tremor out of her voice. "I would ask, if you will allow me, to live in your house for a season, so that I may search your libraries, and learn from your wisdom, and the wisdom of others. I would like to find, if you will permit me, many," she drew in a breath, "many books to read."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see Elros shifting his weight, and reaching a lean, muscular arm out to clap a hand on Elrond's shoulder. But Andreth kept her gaze fixed determinedly upon Círdan's eyes.
"You enjoy reading, child?" he asked. "And learning?"
"Yes, my lord," she returned, her voice softening. "I do. Very much."
To this, a smile of warmest pleasure drew up the wise elf's lips, and he came forward, reaching for, and clasping Andreth's small hand between both of his own.
"Then you are most welcome, daughter of the house of Bëor." His hands were not gnarled or spotted with age as the hands of Firiel, or of another aged mortal, but still, she felt within their grasp, a whisper of the ages that he had seen, and the wisdom that lay behind his kind, gentle eyes.