Chapter Three: The Shipwright
Mithlond turned cold just past midday. The chill rolled in from the ocean just as the sun started to hang low in the sky. It had fought the clouds all day, punching and pushing its way through the constant cover until it seemed to give up entirely and offer very little warmth to stave off the chill from the bay. Maren did not mind, knowing that that it was probably the last swim of the season before the water turned too cold for even her and the fish swam away to warmer climes. Still, she ignored her visible breath as she made quick work of stripping her clothes and tossing them aside.
Maren took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity and stepped off the dock and sank beneath the surface.
She locked her legs together and let her body weight do the bulk of the work to get her to the bottom. She bent her knees when her toes touched the slimy rocks, allowing herself a few moments to get the feel of the ocean currents, before she opened her eyes and pushed herself back up. She repeated the process three times before her lungs finally gave out and she was forced to tread at the surface.
Maren treaded water and turned her gaze towards the end of the bay, eyes dancing over the flanking cliffs on either side. Beyond, the white water churned, drawing everything out of the Gulf of Lune and pulling it towards the open ocean where it calmed down once again. She squinted her eyes, struggling to pick out anything that wasn't bright water and foam. The hope that she held onto, the one that kept her up at night and brought her back out to the bay every morning, told her that at any moment she would see a bright white ship against a backdrop of blue.
But it had been a month and despite her spending every day waiting, her brother still had not returned.
From where and from what, she still did not know, but there was an unease that had settled over Mithlond and the skeleton crew of inhabitants that still called it home that all but froze them in place.
To save herself from her own cycling worries, she dipped down below the surface of the water once again and pushed away from her cliffside refuge. She closed her eyes against the salty sting, letting the feel of the water she knew as intimately as she knew the blood pumping through her chest guide her out into the deepest part of the bay. When she reached the point where the water turned even colder, she took another deep breath and dived.
Maren kicked her legs feverishly, eyes set on the ocean floor. The depth was almost early five hundred paces surface to sand, but clear to the very bottom. She paused halfway, floating limp and boneless, and looked out. Fish swarmed around her, glittering like moving constellations before they moved on, swimming away from her and out to the ocean. Part of her wished she could join them, that she could swim forever until it no longer mattered if there was sun or not. The burn in her lungs reminded her that she could not, so she turned upside down and swam the rest of the way to the sandy bottom.
When she woke up that morning, she had her mind set on finding clams.
She had craved them the entire time she was Imladris, missing the salty taste in the months she spent eating earthy game. But it had been a month since she returned and she still hadn't been able to find any.
But she had woken up with a good feeling and today she was fortunate.
She spotted three, nestled together in a reef. They were young, barely the size of her hand and the color of rare obsidian, but she thought they would do. She pumped her legs faster and pulled out her favorite shelling knife. The sand she kicked up obscured her sight, but they were already tucked away in her dive bag before it began to matter.
She broke the surface just as the sun finally dipped behind the horizon for good.
She was late.
"Ulmo," She half cursed, swimming back towards the shore at full speed. She pulled herself back up to the docks and threw on her dress in one swift movement, ignoring the awful feel of the fabric on her wet skin as she sprinted up to her Uncle's workshop. She skidded inside, flinging water in every direction.
"You are late," Cirdan said, not looking up from the mast he was chipping away at. She looked from him and over to the two plates balanced precariously on the mess of tools and partial carvings. Saw dust clung to the melted butter. "And you are dripping."
Maren glanced down at the puddle.
"You craft boats. A little water seems like it should be the least of your worries," She said, leaning down over the plated to fish to take a long sniff. Still, out of respect for his space and out of a desire to keep him in the best spirits, she reached her arms up and tied her soaked hair into a thick, knotty braid tucked safely into her dress.
"I have never cared for it," Cirdan said, sliding his carving knife along the edge of the mast, smoothing the intricate design in one swift movement. When she was younger she used to spend her time watching him work for hours. Her appreciation for the craft had waned, just as her desire to live so far away from the other elves of Middle Earth, and she no longer found the comfort in it she once had. She pulled her diving bag off her hip and dropped it on one of the few empty spaces in the workshop. Cirdan glanced up at the sound, pausing his work for just long enough to incline his head in a more formal greeting before he started his work again.
"There were no ships," She said, forcing her voice to appear casual despite the fact that the twitch of her hands betrayed her.
"No," Cirdan agreed, the rhythmic slide of his knife filling the remaining silence. "Perhaps tomorrow."
"Perhaps."
"You are anxious."
"Ciro has never been gone this long," She said, tucking her hands behind her back to keep the worst of the tremors hidden.
"So you say. And yet, you have returned to me after five years in Imladris. He is simply delayed, Marenya."
"That's different, Uncle." It was not, but she still felt the reflexive need to defend her long absence. Cirdan looked up again, wispy-white eyebrows raised at her tone. "I was not treasure hunting."
"No, but I am absolutely certain to sons of Elrond were not content to sit by a warm hearth for the entirety of that time."
Maren blushed, disliking the conspiratorial look on her uncle's face. He was too old for such foolishness, too disconnected from those sorts of affairs. There had been a time that he might be like other uncles, the sort that were present, but she was quickly dissuaded of that the longer she spent living with him and the more she understood. It was hard to be grounded here when his gaze was set firmly on the life on the other side of the sea. There was a freedom to grow up under his shadow and beyond his sight, but now that it was firmly fixed on her, she shirked under its weight.
"No. They are always restless."
Cirdan's lip curled, but he continued to whittle away. The wood shavings fell to the floor, forgotten until much later when they were gathered up and used for kindling. They burned sweet, like a sticky bun left in the oven too long, and always reminded her of a time that had long since passed. Maren sighed and turned away, searching around until she found an overturned bucket to prop herself up on. She pulled her legs underneath her and smoothed her sheer skirt down over her legs.
Cirdan continued to work, comfortable with the silence that filled his workshop save for the sound of his knife. When he was finally satisfied with his work, he stood up to straight and wiped his hands on his work tunic.
"Did they not wish to join you?"
"We do spend time apart," She said, noticing that Cirdan smiled, seemingly in spite of himself. "On occasion."
He made a noise, this one even more skeptical than the last, and turned around to take in his messy workshop and all its endless chaos. When she was an elfling, Maren had taken it upon herself to clean it for him as a present, only to learn that it was one of the worst ideas of her short life. It had taken him months to get it back to the controlled mess he favored. Even now, centuries later, he still grumbled about a missing paper or two. He dug around, tossing aside half-broken tools and ripped pieces of sandpaper, before he finally found what he was looking for.
"What do you think of this color?" He asked, holding out the little cup as he walked closer to her.
"It's grey," She said, struggling to find the words to describe its blandness.
"White," He corrected, dipping one slender finger into the stain. He held it up to the light and moved the paint between his fingers. Clearly unsatisfied, he wiped it off on his tunic and set the cup aside, discarded with all the others that did not meet his lofty expectations. "Although, not the right shade."
"For what? Who is the boat for? Our kin have not made a crossing for some time."
Cirdan turned away, ignoring her question entirely. She frowned, lips pursed at his near constant evasiveness. He was not a particularly open individual, much to her great and persistent annoyance, but he was not normally so quiet when asked a direct question, least of all one from her. "You have been gone too long, Marenya. You have forgotten what we do."
"We provide passage," She said without prompting. The words had been spoken far more times that she could count, half a promise, half a warning, and she only gave them thought when she must. They were not her words, not her purpose, and she spent the many centuries of her lift flitting about in the hopes that she might one day find her own. Cirdan looked over his shoulder and nodded, eyebrows knitting together at the look on her face.
"What troubles you?"
"Is the boat for you?"
"No, not yet." He pulled a small brush from his pocket and turned back to his work. He dabbed it in the paint and brushed it along the freshly carved mast, mumbling to himself. He worked in silence, mumbling and muttering and complaining, before he spoke to her again, voice very much softer than before. "Do not let the thought trouble you. We have more important matters to discuss."
"Ciro…"
"No."
Maren sat up straighter, the seriousness in his voice catching her by surprise. Cirdan, for all that he had a commanding presence, did very little in the way of governing Mithlond. There were so few of them left, it hardly felt needed most of the time. Infrequently, so infrequently she nearly forgot that her Uncle was more than a simple shipwright to the outside world, he had to do more than toil away in his workshop. It seemed now was one of those times. "What?"
"I have a message you must deliver for me."
Maren scowled.
"Is that all?"
"You were expecting something more?"
"Your tone indicated otherwise."
"It is an important message, if that would ease your conscious enough to do this for me without arguing."
"I'm not arguing," She said, not realizing the irony of her statement before she said it. She blushed and looked down at her pale hands. There was a bit of sand and muck under nails, a residue from the clams she was sure. Picking at it nervously, she cleared her throat. "You have my apologies, Uncle. It seems my time in Imladris has made me discourteous."
"You must trust me."
"Do I not get to know?"
"Marenya."
"Who am I delivering it to?"
"Lord Elrond and Mithrandir."
"Mithrandir? What business would you have with him?"
Her nosiness, she recognized, was a familial trait. Cirdan raised an eyebrow and gave her another stern look, resulting in her looking appropriately shamefaced, but no less insatiably curious. "That is not for you to know."
"That hardly seems fair."
"And yet, you will do it all the same." His tone effectively negated the possibility for further argument, forcing her into a moody silence that seemed more appropriate for an elfling than an elleth fully grown. "Do not look so wounded."
"I do not like not knowing things."
"You are so very like your mother." He sat down on the railing of the ship heavily, causing it sway in its harness. "Stubborn to a fault. Presumptuous, as well."
"I do not mean to offend."
"You have not and will not. I am merely trying to express how much you remind me of her." He suddenly bore a wistful look on his face, the sort that men wore when their minds were elsewhere, on happier things and happier times. Cirdan, as eternal and ever-constant as he was, had started to show is age in the last few centuries. His face, while still line free and smooth, seemed hollower to her, more drawn and thin than last remembered. His silvery beard was longer and thinner, now brushing against his stomach. He was weary and for every moment he spent looking at his life here, he spent twice as many with gaze beyond the sea. "The moment you were born, I could see the same look in your eyes."
Maren shifted in her spot, debating with herself for a moment before she made up her mind. She stood up and hopped up to the ship, gripping the railing so she could easily pull herself over to stand next to him. He blinked, seeming to realize he was on the precipice of getting lost to himself once again. She reached out and touched his arm, rubbing his arm with a small smile on her face.
"Something is bothering you."
"No more than usual. It is nothing for your thoughts to linger on." He placed his hand over hers, squeezing it in an unusual show of affection that only served to worry her more. "Now, what did you find during your swim?"
"Clams."
"Was there anything inside them?"
"I have not looked yet."
He gestured to her diving bag with a knowing smile on his face. He knew he was changing the subject with about as little grace as newly borne foal learning to walk, but Maren did not mind. He had always used her interests as a way of steering away from uncomfortable topics of conversation. He was only and she thought, given how much grief she had given him over the years, he had earned the right to dictate how the conversation should go. She turned around and lowered herself off the ship, stepping forward to give room for Cirdan to do the same. She walked over to her bag and pulled out the three clams, wiping them off on the bottom of her dress as she turned around, holding them out for him to inspect.
"Where did you find these?"
"Close to the southern coast. Perhaps less than half a league from the shore." She pulled out her shelling knife and held it in her mouth, using both her hands to balance the three clams as she decided which one she wanted to crack open first. The smallest would do, she thought. Without waiting for permission, she unceremoniously shoved the other two into her Uncle's hands. She pulled the knife out of her mouth and held the clam in the other, lining the blade up to the seam until she was certain she could get it in one smooth swipe. She smiled at the salty, fishy smell when she opened it, remembering the countless hours she spent doing the very same thing with her brother. He liked to eat them afterwards, but she had never quite developed the taste.
"That one has a pearl," Cirdan said, gesturing to the little glob of yellow surrounded by slime. She dug through the flesh, nails gathering more gunk, and pulled it out, smiling at the discovery. She held it aloft and inspected it, looking for imperfections. When she found none, she dropped it into her Uncle's other hand and grabbed the next clam. She repeated the process twice, each time producing a small, knobby pearl. "Fortune smiled upon you today."
He dropped the pearls back into her hand. She looked at them, staring at the yellow, black, and silver for a moment, before she picked up the silver one and handed it back to him.
"My Lord Cirdan." They both turned around and wiped their hands, Cirdan gesturing for the elf to come further into the workshop. He gave Maren one more look before he turned away from her completely, tucking the small pearl into his robes. "Lord Ciro's ship has returned."
Maren froze. Forgetting her manners for a moment, she turned to the elf, Galdor, now that she got a look at him, and crossed the small space to speak to him with an earnest look on her face. "Just now? How is Ciro? Is he well?"
"Marenya," Cirdan warned, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What news?"
"Only one has returned," Galdor said, inclining his head slightly.
Cirdan gestured for Galdor to lead them to the docks, following after him with Maren close at his back. She was practically breathing down his neck, but she did not bother to fall back to a more respectable distance. Galdor turned left and sped away from the workshop, long legs carrying him down the narrow dock in less than a minute. The ship that Ciro always favored bounced peacefully in the water, white sails already gathered and tied down by the dock workers – few though they may be. When the ships returned from their expeditions, the crew would spend the next few hours cleaning the ships, taking stock of what they had found, and returning the supplies to the only storehouse that was still in use. But tonight, there was none of that. No laughter from the crew, nor happy reunions. The lack of activity was uncomfortable, but seeing only one elf standing at the edge of the gangplank made her chest tighten until she stopped breathing for a moment.
Without thinking she rushed past Cirdan and Galdor and skidded to a stop in front of the elf, eyes darting over her face. "Tirlyniel, what happened?"
The captain looked down at her feet, a look of shame taking over her sea-sprayed face. She gripped her hands together in front of her chest and looked up at Maren first, and then to Cirdan, who stood directly behind her.
"I cannot explain it, Lord Cirdan."
"Where is Ciro?"
"He is gone," She said, head bowing once again. "Although I do not know where."
"Speak plainly, Captain."
"We were at Forochel. Ciro wished to explore the old ice ruins…"
"To look for his treasures," Maren said, cutting her off.
"It was not our intention to continue his search after our failure at the Himling, but once Forochel was in our sights he became overcome with the desire once again."
"Your crew?" Cirdan asked, showing not a single hint of emotion on his face.
"He went ashore with Nirdin. Ciro said he did not need anyone else."
"Was Ciro lost? The tides at Forochel are treacherous," Cirdan said, able to keep his tone calm, where Maren would not have.
"No, my Lord. I do not believe Ciro fell."
"Then where is he?" Maren asked, voice raised slightly.
"We were exploring the coast the day before. Ciro and Nirdin separated from me for quite some time. High tide was nearing, but I could not find him. I thought perhaps he had returned to the ship, but when as I prepared to leave, I noticed that the skiff was gone. He left."
"Where would he go?"
"He took something with him," The captain said, turning around to go back to the ship. She went up the gangplank and rummaged around in the supply baskets stacked against the railing, pushing most of them aside until she found what she was looking for. She cradled the package carefully, holding it against her chest like it was a small child. She walked down the ramp slower than before, holding eye contact with Cirdan as she did. When she came back to standing in front of them, she held it out to him, hands shaking slightly. "I did not realize that he had taken this with us until he was already gone."
Cirdan took the bag from her hands, perhaps not as nervous as he should have been, and carefully dug around inside.
Maren peered over her uncle's shoulder at the object in his hand, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
It was empty.
Ornate, yes, and clearly made to hold something quite valuable.
But it was still just an empty bag.
"Elostirion."
"I did not know we carried it on the ship until after he was gone."
"What happened in that cave, Captain?"
"I do not know. I am sorry I cannot tell you anymore."
"Did he say anything before he left?"
"Annúminas."
Cirdan lowered his hands, holding the empty bag close to his chest. "I see. I thank you, Captain, for your service. Go. See to your mother. She has missed you."
"Of course, my Lord Cirdan."
Cirdan turned and walked away from the ship, head bowed and eyebrows knit together.
"Uncle?" Maren called, racing to keep up with his blistering pace. "Wait!" She called after him, glancing at the ship once more before she ran after him. Galdor, who had remained stone faced and silent, followed as well, keeping pace with Maren as they both followed him back to his workshop.
"Galdor," Cirdan said from over his shoulder, forcing the elf in question to speed up. "Prepare two horses at once."
Galdor inclined his head, even though Cirdan could not see him, and turned to his right, taking the steps two at a time in the direction of the stables at her Uncle's command. Maren, still hopeful she might get some sort of explanation, kept following after him rather than accompanying Galdor. When her uncle walked into his study, she hurried in after him before he could shut the door.
"You will accompany Galdor to Imladris."
"What of your note to Mithrandir?"
"You were there not a week past. What did you see?"
"See?"
"Yes, Maren, see. What did you notice?" He set the empty bag on his desk and turned to face her.
"There was a raven from the East. Thorin Oakenshield is dead."
"Then the tidings are grim."
"What do you mean?"
Cirdan pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, letting out a deep sigh. "I must ask you a favor."
"Anything," She said, moving closer to him earnestly. "Uncle, what is it? You look as if you have seen a ghost."
"Perhaps I have," He said, trailing off slightly. "I thought the stone was safe here, but it seems even we are not immune to its evils. Now that is has slipped out of our protection…" He cleared his throat and trailed off, collecting himself as he turned to her once more. "You will ride to Imladris and deliver this to Lord Elrond and Mithrandir with all haste."
"You still haven't told me what it i…"
"Maren. You will tell them that the Stone of Elendil has been lost. I do not understand more that that for myself."
Maren scowled at him. He spoke cryptically, at the best of times, and she had grown quite accustomed to it. But at that moment, however, at the moment when she needed him to speak to her as her uncle and not as Cirdan the Shipwright, she found she wished he would change for just a moment. "Is Ciro in danger?" She asked, hoping that he could answer that, at the very least.
"Yes."
"Then I will go."
"Speak to no one but Lord Elrond and Mithrandir."
She nodded, walking over to him so that they stood an arm's length apart. He looked down at her and for a moment she saw his real age written all across his face. He reached out and touched the top of her head, unspoken words of caution passing between them before he pulled his hand back and stood up straighter. "Now hurry. Galdor will be waiting and I fear time is not our friend today. Get dressed and do not forget your weapons. I fear you will need them."