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Summary: none given
Author's Note: Though there are many texts from which to draw information on the Years of the Trees, I have chosen only two on which to base this tale. The Silmarillion itself, of course, and also HOME XI, The War of the Jewels, Part One, “The Grey Annals.” In so doing I have taken Tolkien’s own formulation and used “VY” – Valian Year, to signify time-frame. Each “Valian Year” equals approx. 9.58 “sun” years. Also, instead of my usual straight narrative, I have woven two tales, each denoted by different text styles and further delineated by date, which converge at the end. I hope it is not too confusing.
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- Late VY 1497 -
Erestor darted right and left, his serpentine course carrying him away from the hideous sights of the battle that had just taken place. This time, it was not just orcs, who had ever in his memory menaced the lands of Beleriand, but Balrogs had come as well, those wicked fire servants of the Dark Enemy, even unto the death of Fëanor himself. Erestor was hard pressed to return to Eglarest with news and relentlessly made his way south and west. He knew that even Círdan and his home had been beset and, it reminded him of another time…another battle, not so long ago…
- Early VY 1497 -
A lone elf edged his way west, keeping close to the series of small hills called The Long Wall. He followed them, each mound leading to another as he moved. Periodically he halted and spat, clearing his mouth of the coppery metallic taste of his own blood, and endeavoring to rid his nostrils of the smell of burning flesh.
Never had he witnessed such a thing. His people, assailed on all sides by the foul creatures called orcs. Gruesome in their countenance and relentless in their unthinking destruction. Surely he had heard of them, and once in a while one of the company would go missing into the depths of the dark, supposedly taken by such creatures, but the missing never returned and he knew not where they had gone.
But this was the first time he had seen orcs, and assembled in mass, with no other purpose than the thoughtless slaughter of the elves among Denethor’s people. It was devastatingly quick, each side with their crude weapons, and the dead piled up. They had been cut off from Thingol’s folk and he had seen Denethor slain with his very own eyes upon Amon Ereb. Amidst the chaos he had become separated from his company.
Now he entered territory unknown, though he had heard that other elves lived farther west, so redoubled his pace. Every sound made his ears prick and he traveled with his bow in his hand as he scrabbled upon rock after rock. Soon he came to a forest and skirted its edge, all the while longing for the familiarity of the Land of Seven Rivers. Oh, for the refreshing waters and close camaraderie.
He was alone.
His needs became simple – sustenance and water, an eave of trees to rest under, or a cave to hide him. His clothing torn and tattered. Bloodied. He ached down to his very bones and his legs struggled to hold him upright. With naught but the fixed stars above and the smell of Belegaer to guide him, he kept moving.
Within sight of the sea-city, his steps faltered. Exhausted entirely, he took his last conscious breath, stumbled, and fell.
- Late VY 1497 -
Erestor made his way toward Eglarest, tediously dodging small patrols of the enemy he met along the way. This time, he was confident in his steps, knowing the land and its hiding places, and he made strategic use of this knowledge to take short rests along the way. At last he came to the plains which surrounded the city and saw that many homes still smoldered from the carnage that the swath of Morgoth’s southern army had wrought. Briefly he searched for signs of life among them, but quickly surmised that any that remained had sought succor in the city, so he quickened his pace.
He carried tidings, yes, and he wanted to hear of what had happened along the coast, but more than anything else, he wished to see the face of Círdan. His lord. His teacher. His beloved. He needed to know that he was safe.
Entering the gates of the city, Erestor’s eyes took in the sight of scattered elves, erecting make-shift dwellings to house those who had fled within the sheltering walls. He quickly scanned their company, searching for Talathdir and Belldîs, his first friends amongst the Falathrim. Once upon a time, they had saved his very life, and he loved them dearly. He was relieved when he saw them, working amongst the others, and promised himself to return as soon as he had spoken to Círdan.
He wended his way through the streets, breaking into a trot as he neared the dwelling that he shared with the ship-wright. Near breathless when he arrived, Erestor flung open the door and gasped with relief when he found his lord, bent over a table, reading the maps they had drawn of the coastline and their surroundings.
Círdan looked up, gazed at Erestor’s eyes, and then stilled. Erestor saw his knuckles go white as they scrambled to hold fast to the table and then saw his lover bow his head, whispered words upon his lips. Thanking the Valar that both of them were alive and well, thought Erestor. Círdan had ever been faithful and Erestor gave him the time for his prayer.
Before he knew it, Círdan had come ‘round the table, and Erestor found his head cradled between the mariner’s strong hands, warm kisses on his hair, his forehead, his eyes, and finally, a warm pair of lips upon Erestor’s own. Desperately, Erestor held on, returning the kiss and grasping Círdan’s tunic between his fingers.
As Círdan stepped back, he finally spoke.
“Oh. My Erestor. Here,” he said, clasping the pitcher of clear water that rested on the table and pouring some into a glass.
“You must be thirsty. And hungry…Oh. You are here.” Shuddering with relief.
Are you well?” Círdan asked, with an appraising glance.
Erestor smiled and looked down at his body. His clothes were torn here and there, he was dirty, and he was sure that his hair was disheveled, but overall he was in fine shape for all that he had been through.
He divested himself of his bow and quiver and unbuckled the halter that sheathed his knives. Placing them in a corner, he untied his cloak and hung it on a hook. Now that his things were in place, he sat down across the table from Círdan and took a long pull on the glass of water. He refilled it, drank again, and sat back.
“I am well,” he assured his lover, “Though I could use a bath. But first, we should talk. I have much to tell you.”
- Early VY 1497
Talathdir bent over the long row of flax, deftly uprooting the stalkiest stems. It was back-breaking work, but satisfying, knowing that the whole of the plant would be put to good use. Once in a while he would sift the dirt around their roots, enjoying the feel of the earth slipping through his fingers. He would ever be grateful that Lord Círdan had taken one look at him and known that he was not for the work of the marinas. He loved the land and was content knowing that the small farm on which he and his wife, Belldîs, lived, provided much that was needed for the Falathrim.
At first, he had been unconvinced that the soil would provide the necessary succor for his crops, but Círdan had assured him that the Valar would provide, and because he loved and trusted his lord, put all of his effort into making the farm work. Now, at the harvest, he had seen that Círdan was right, and he stood up to admire the field of ripe plants. Absently, he walked to the last long row, grateful that he was nearly finished. He was tired and hungry and looked forward to the meal that Belldîs had already prepared for them.
As he moved forward, his foot caught and he nearly tumbled over. Looking down, he saw what seemed to be a tangle of rags bunched up amidst his field. He bent, thinking to take them up, then nearly fell back when he discovered that it was not a bunch of cloth at all, but an elf, tattered and bloodied and breathing quite slowly.
Taking the elf up in his arms, Talathdir walked quickly toward his home, calling out to his wife.
“Belldîs! Belldîs!”
She met them at the entryway, opening the door wide to allow Talathdir room to carry his burden inside. He placed the injured elf on the pallet and Belldîs leaned over him, expertly checking his body for wounds, and drawing his long, nearly black hair away from his face. She asked Talathdir to bring water and she held it to the stranger’s mouth, moistening the parched and cracked lips. Bathing his face. Parting the torn clothing, she saw that he did not seem to be wounded, but nonetheless worked with care.
“He was just lying there, in the field,” said Talathdir, “Is he alright?”
“But for some scratches and scrapes, he does not seem to be badly injured, but he is very thin,” she replied, “I do not think he has eaten in quite a while. I wonder who he is…”
At that, the elf woke and licked at his lips. Eyelashes fluttering, he opened his eyes slowly, but when he saw Talathdir and Belldîs, they went wide. His first instinct was to shrink back, and he did, but scanned his surroundings, and once assured that his caretakers were indeed elves, he lay back, a small moan escaping his mouth.
“Water,” he gasped.
Belldîs quickly brought the cup to his mouth and the elf reached out to take it himself. After he had emptied it, he motioned for more and propped himself on his elbows. Belldîs adjusted the pillow behind his head and the darkling stranger began to speak.
His words came quickly, and he motioned with his arms, but so divergent had the tongues of the elves become that Talathdir and Belldîs could only understand some of it. They knew already that he was not of the Falas, nor in Talathdir’s limited experience could he place him from Menegroth. They could only surmise that he was a wanderer, for they had heard tell of small bands of elves that walked freely in the land.
Talathdir placed a comforting hand on his arm, causing the elf to slow his speech.
“Sîdh,” he said, “Peace. What is your name? Eneth?” Hoping the elf would understand that they were friendly and would do him no harm.
“Eneth? Eneth. Ere…Erestor.”
“I am Talathdir, Erestor,” and then, pointing to his wife, “Belldîs.”
“Belldîs, will you please serve up some of the stew that you have made? And then after we have eaten, we will help him to bathe. I think that I should take him to the city. Lord Círdan will know what to do.”
Belldîs helped Erestor to the table and was glad to see that, though still shaken, the elf could walk. His feet were a mess, but she thought that with a bath and few bandages he would be able to make it to the city.
Erestor tentatively sat at the table and when the bowl was placed before him brought his nose down to smell. He then took a finger, dipped it into the fragrant stew and tasted it with his tongue. Deciding all was well, he took up the spoon and ate. And ate.
“Well,” Belldîs chuckled, “There is certainly nothing wrong with his appetite. He will be alright, I think.”
Talathdir smiled at her, grateful that he had chosen such a wise woman for his wife, and together they finished the meal.
Afterward, the couple helped Erestor to bathe, carefully allowing him privacy when it was warranted. Talathdir lent him some breeches and a tunic, but laughed when he saw how his much larger clothing hung awkwardly on Erestor’s lithe frame.
Erestor bent at the waist, fanning his hair with long fingers, helping it to dry. Standing straight again, he hitched the breeches around his waist, shook his head, and for the first time graced his benefactors with a smile. Lowering his eyes, in what he hoped was a signal of his gratitude.
“You are more than welcome, Erestor,” said Talathdir. He gathered Erestor’s bow and quiver and handed it to the elf.
“Shall we go?” he asked. With a last smile to Belldîs, Erestor followed Talathdir through the doorway.
“I hope we shall see you again,” called Belldîs, “Safe journey, Talathdir. I will look forward to your return.”
Talathdir’s house was but a few miles from Eglarest’s gates so the trek was not long and soon the pair found themselves safely ensconced inside the city’s walls. Erestor gazed at the stone buildings as they walked, amazed at the houses row upon row and built atop one another and the small shops and craftsman’s studios that lined the streets. It was all new to him and he walked wide-eyed at Talathdir’s side.
As they arrived at an entranceway, Talathdir stopped them and turned to Erestor, bidding him with a hand to wait. Talathdir knocked, once, twice, and within a few moments, a tall elf, regal in countenance and with the smallest growth of a beard answered the door.
“Talathdir!”
The home-owner’s greeting echoed in the street.
“And…”
“Greetings, Lord Círdan. This is Erestor. I found him in our field and he was in terrible condition. He does not speak our tongue and I have not seen his like before. I thought I should bring him to you. He may have a tale to tell.”
“Well, come in. Come in,” beckoned Círdan, “Let me hear all of it.”
He bid them to sit and offered each a cup of red wine. Talathdir gratefully accepted, but Erestor was hesitant. He dipped his finger into the dark mixture and brought it to his lips. Scrunching up his nose, he put the cup back on the table.
“Ah well,” laughed Círdan, “tis an acquired taste to be sure.”
Then, smiling at Erestor, “Would you prefer water?”
“Water,” said Erestor.
“That was just about the only word I understood him to say!” interjected Talathdir. “Though he seemed to understand ‘eneth’ – for that is how we learned his name.”
“Erestor,” said Círdan, and then again, “Erestor. It is not a familiar name to me.”
The younger elf knew they speaking of him, but could not make out all of the words. He felt uncomfortable with all of the new things that he had seen and certainly did not care for such careful scrutiny, but at the same time he felt safe and he could not quite understand it. Before he knew it, a long string of words were coming out of his mouth, punctuated here and there by an upward lilt at the end of his sentences. Questions.
Círdan smiled as he tried to understand Erestor’s language. Bidding him with hand motions to slow down, and offering another cup of water.
Erestor bit his lip and furrowed his brow. Sighing in frustration, he took another sip from the cup, and began again. This time, slowly enunciating and choosing his words carefully.
At once, Círdan stood up, grinning widely and then, chary, so as not to alarm his new guest, becalmed himself.
Smiling at the elf across from him, Círdan shook his head up and down. Yes. That was it.
“You are of the lost people. The unwilling. Nandor. Lenwë and Denethor. Oh yes. Now, I understand.”
“Hurrah for that,” answered Talathdir, draining his cup, “I knew you would know what to do. May he stay? I should be getting back to the farm.”
“Of course,” answered Círdan, all the while looking at Erestor with a welcoming smile.
Círdan did not know all of the Laiquendi tongue, but knew enough of the words to communicate with Erestor that he was to stay at his home. Círdan arose to bid Talathdir goodbye, but before he took his leave, Erestor stood and placed a hand on Talathdir’s arm.
“All will be well, Erestor. Círdan will care for you. I will see you again.”
Once Talathdir had gone, Círdan turned to Erestor.
“Well, my friend, you have had quite an adventure and I would guess, a long journey. I see you have bathed, but I will get you some water and salve for your feet and then you should rest. We will have plenty of time to speak afterward. ”
He motioned for Erestor to follow him and the younger elf did, but not before plucking up his bow from the floor. Círdan smiled knowingly, and hoped that he could soon show the newcomer that he had nothing to fear.
Círdan showed him to a small room, and after he had anointed his feet with salve, bade him to rest. Erestor understood well enough and before Círdan left offered the mariner a smile that bespoke his gratitude. Ere Círdan closed the door, Erestor’s eyes glazed and he fell into deep reverie.
- Late VY 1497 –
“Tell me all that you have seen,” said Círdan.
“It was even worse than the First Battle,” said Erestor, “though overall, the news is good. The Dark One’s minions have been routed and recalled to Angband. I saw a few small groups of orcs as I made my way back, but they were headed north. Perhaps the help we have longed for has come at last.”
“You say that it was more terrible than last time? What do you mean?”
“Círdan, not only did he send orcs – there were other things – more evil. Werewolves and Balrogs. Ai! They were the worst. Fire creatures, cracking whips and destroying all who lay in their path. I do not know that any elf could best them.”
“But they have been defeated?”
“Oh, you should have seen the Noldor fight! Magnificent and powerful in their wrath.”
“What do you know of those that have returned?”
“They are all Golodhrim and were led by a veritable fire-spirit himself. An elf named Fëanor. And with him came his seven sons. Seven, Círdan. Nearly all as estimable as their father. I could not count all that came with them, but they are a formidable band. Though all of the news is not good.”
“How so?”
“At the last, the father could not contain his ire, even though the orcs were retreating. He followed them, with only a small group for support. The Balrogs turned on him, and their leader, one called Gothmog, struck and wounded him. Badly. Though his eldest son, named Maedhros, and three other of his sons carried Fëanor away and tended to him, he did not survive his injuries. This I have heard from others, who were there.”
“What have you learned of the reason for the Noldor coming to Endor? For the fire that lit the horizon?”
“I do not know much about those things. Though I hear tell that Morgoth had stolen something of value to Fëanor and that the fey elf had followed Him here to retrieve it. The fires that we saw were the ships that bore them. Why they set them alight I still have not learned.”
“So their purpose may be other than coming to our aid,” sighed Círdan, “Though still, if as you say, they are warriors well-skilled, perhaps their cause and ours can be conjoined. We share a joint enemy, after all.”
“Ah Erestor,” said Círdan, leaning into the darkling elf and resting his head atop Erestor’s own. “I am so glad that you have returned safely. I missed you…and worried.”
Erestor tilted his head back, and Círdan pressed his mouth over his lover’s. Their kiss was tender, all the more as both knew that circumstances and events would soon part them again.
- Early VY 1497 –
From the first, Círdan could see that Erestor was unusually intelligent. Recalling their initial stilted conversations – carried out in snippets and words known to both of them – dagor and eneth, gîl and ennor, - Círdan had been astonished at how rapidly his young charge caught on to the speech of the Falathrim.
He had since learned that the only parents Erestor had known had been killed in the battle near Amon Ereb and that he had no other close kin. Strange, thought Círdan, as the Green-Elves were a secretive and closely knit group, but he accepted Erestor’s explanation. Círdan had offered to relocate Erestor to Menegroth, since the few Laiquendi that did not go back to the woods after the First Battle had re-settled there, but Erestor had declined and chosen to remain with him in Eglarest. And he had learned that perhaps Erestor was not so young as he had thought, for the elf had tales to tell of the land beyond the mountains, and of Lenwë, which Círdan knew to be long in the past for the people of Ossiriand.
Erestor himself had been awestruck – the first glimpse of the twilight sea forever etched in his mind. What a wonder! And the life of those in the city. So busy. Always something to be done in support of the ships that sailed the coastline and the fisheries that supplied so much of their food. It was all he could do to keep up with all of the things he had learned.
“Pits of Utumno!” cried Erestor, bringing his hand to his mouth. Not for the first time had he driven the needle he plied into his fingers.
“I will never get this right. Look at the stitches, Círdan – they are so uneven and wildy.”
Círdan laughed as he watched Erestor wrestle with the billowy white fabric on his lap.
“Ah, Erestor, I do not know what to do with you. We have tried your skill at the building of the ships and you pound your own flesh with the hammer instead of the wood. We have endeavored to teach you rope-making and you only twist your own hands in the threads…”
“Well,” said Erestor, holding up the cloth, “it seems I am not so skilled at sail-making, either.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you are cut out for the life of a mariner,” sighed Círdan.
“Perhaps you are right. Maybe I should go and live with Talathdir and learn to work the land.”
“I fear you would only end up face down in the retting water, Erestor.”
Erestor smirked. “I can swim, Círdan.”
“Aye,” answered the ship-wright, “That you can. But the one thing I know you can do well is ask questions. Do you never run out of your thirst for knowledge?”
Something tickled in the back of Círdan’s mind even as he asked Erestor the question. Thirst for knowledge. No close kin amongst the Laiquendi. The raven-dark hair that was so different from those he had known among the people of Ossiriand. He furrowed his brow.
“Of course not,” answered Erestor, putting down the cloth and standing, “There is so much to know and I wish to know it all!” Almost afire in his animated excitement.
Círdan could not help but smile at Erestor’s exuberance. He was gratified to see that all of the darkling elf’s initial wariness had long passed away and that Erestor had become comfortable with life in the Falas…and with him.
“I do hear tell that you are good with the long-knives.”
“That I am!” said Erestor, miming the dance, cutting swatches through the air. “But only as an exercise. I do not see myself as a warrior. I may be strong, but I am not large. I mean…look at me.”
And Círdan did. Look at him. Really look at him, as an elf full grown and not as one who was his charge. He was beautiful, in a way that was exotically different than most of the Teleri with whom he was familiar. Lithe in body, but muscled, and well-formed. The lustrous hair, so disheveled most of the time, framing a face that was almost pearlescent in its tone, and the eyes – obsidian dark, but brightly shining. The rosy hue of the bow-shaped lips. Círdan felt a familiar tingle begin in his depths, but fought it down.
Swallowing heavily and gulping down a sigh, Círdan answered.
“No. I do not see you as a warrior…but then, you do know how to defend yourself, and your woodland skills are nearly unparalleled – especially here, amongst the sea-folk. Hmmm.”
“What?”
“Would you like to travel?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking that perhaps a visit to Menegroth may be just the thing. You say you wish to learn more – all that you can. And there, they have some more learned than I. The language is a little different, and the way of living, and I do need to send some messages to King Thingol. Would you be willing to take them – to act as emissary?”
Círdan bit his lip. He really did not want Erestor to leave, but the alarming feeling that had come over him previously frightened him. His heart did not will it, but his mind told him soundly that it would be for the best if Erestor was separated from him for a time.
“Do you wish for me to leave? I know I have not been much help here,” said Erestor, ruffling the white cloth on his lap as example.
“No!” said Círdan, a little too quickly.
“It is not that I want you to leave – I just think that your mind needs more than what I can teach you right now. In fact, I would miss you greatly. Think of it as an adventure – a learning opportunity. And I can trust you. I know that. And I know that your skill with the bow and knives and your knowledge of the land will serve you in good stead on your journey.”
Though Erestor was loathe to part with Círdan, he could not mask the excitement in his eyes at the prospect of something new. He had grown to love the Falas, and its people and made many friends in Eglarest, but the fact that Círdan seemed to need him for this and that his skills would be useful enlivened him.
“Alright. I will go. For how long?”
“As long as you wish it, Erestor. Learn what you may, deliver my messages. I will not impose a time. Perhaps you will find that your place is there. Who knows?”
But even as he said it, his heart sank. What if Erestor decided he liked it there – and stayed? He closed his eyes and gulped down his fear. He would let the gull fly.
- Valian Year 1498 –
In the time since the return of Fëanor’s folk to the shores of Endor, the elves of Beleriand had learned much more. Erestor had traveled all the way to Lake Mithrim to parley with them, and though they spoke the language of Valinor only, Erestor had been quick to learn it. They were not a forthcoming people and looked upon him warily, but he had made a friend of Maglor, Fëanor’s second son, who told him all that he needed to hear.
It was with sorrow that Maglor had treated with him, for his elder brother, Maedhros, whom he loved, had been taken captive by Morgoth, and taken to Angband. The enemy had sent emissaries under the guise of peace, but it had been a ruse, and all of Fëanor’s host were greatly saddened by this turn.
Erestor had also traveled to Doriath and discovered that if Maglor was wary, then Thingol was even more so. He had no wish to find common cause with those that returned, fearing greatly that their very presence had disrupted the relative peace that had reigned in the land for a time. Though Melian had expressed some dissent, Thingol had been firm and would do naught but as his kingly mind dictated, and keep his people close.
Círdan welcomed him home happily and with relief, ever-knowing that each time Erestor went abroad it had become more perilous. More than once, he wished that he could send someone else, but Erestor had become expert in his travels, and even more, diplomacy, and he would trust no other to carry tidings and to parley with the other elven enclaves.
“And look!” said Erestor, unrolling carefully scrolled sheets of paper.
“Do you see? These were made by Maglor’s own hand. It is a way of writing. Much less cumbersome than the Cirth. Is it not beautiful?”
“That it is,” replied Círdan with interest, tracing the finely wrought letters with his fingers.
“What does it say?”
“Some are naught but the verses of song. Did I tell you that Maglor is a musician? His voice is lovely – so light. I daresay, he would give even Daeron pause. I asked him to write them down, not only so I could remember, but also so that I could practice in the reading and writing of it.”
“What else did you learn of them? What are they like, the Noldor? It has been so long since I have seen any that crossed the Great Sea.”
“Of Maedhros, alas, I have learned only what Maglor and his brothers can tell. But he is honorable, so I hear. And Círdan, some of Fëanor’s sons have fiery red hair! They say Maedhros has the brightest of it, but also Maglor somewhat, and the youngest pair are twins – Amras and Amrod. The three middle sons, I did not speak with, as they seem more cautious than their brothers. Their names are Curufin, Caranthir, and Celegorm. And the last of those brought with him a great hound, which they say was a gift from the Vala Oromë himself.”
“But what are they like?”
“They have many skills. Some are writers and some are singers, adept in language both written and spoken. They have told me many tales of life in Aman. The weapons they have brought are as finely wrought as any made by the dwarves or at Menegroth. Many are craftsman, dealing with metal. And the jewels! Círdan, you should see them! Emerald and adamant, sapphire and ruby. And they say that Fëanor was the best of them – the work of his hands more beautiful than any before had ever seen.”
And then more thoughtfully,
“Jewels. It was three jewels, called the Silmarils, that drew the Golodhrim to Endor. Apparently these jewels were wrought by Fëanor from the light of two special trees that grew in Aman. Light, Círdan. They say that in Valinor, the whole of the land was alight – and not just from the stars…two trees, made by the Valier Yavanna, waxing and waning in their turn, and the light spread everywhere. But Morgoth, with the help of the wicked spider, poisoned and killed them. So there is no light in Aman now…save from the stars. Apparently, Fëanor had captured the light in the jewels though, and they are beautiful and hallowed by Elbereth herself. It was these that Morgoth took, before he stole them off to our lands. And it is these jewels that the whole of Fëanor’s family took an oath to retrieve.”
“What of the fire that we saw on the horizon?”
“Fëanor’s folk were not the only Noldor who wished to follow. He has two half-brothers, and many nephews and all of their kinfolk wanted to make the journey. But there was some falling out amongst them, and Fëanor did not wish for their presence. So he burned the ships that carried them, so they could not travel back to Aman to ferry the rest.”
“This is a lot to consider, Erestor. What think you? Do you believe that they are trustworthy? That they will ally their cause with ours?”
“Hmmm. It is hard to tell, Círdan. Certainly, they hate Morgoth with an uncommon passion, and even more now that Fëanor’s heir is within his clutches. They will fight to death, I think, to fulfill their oath and retrieve the jewels. But they are single-minded and seem not to care much for the elves of Beleriand.”
“But you say they seem to be a learned folk.”
“Oh yes!” exclaimed Erestor. “They have told me great tales and of libraries in Aman with row upon row of written works – everything from song to animal husbandry, craftsmanship and history. They seem to know much, and some few of them at least seemed to want to know all of our history here in the Middle Lands.”
“And they do not all have red hair.” A statement.
“No,” said Erestor. “Most of them have hair so dark as to go unseen under the stars.”
“Like you.” Another statement.
“I suppose.”
“Did you not recognize yourself among them, Erestor? You, too, have as uncommon a thirst for knowledge as the Deep-Elves. And your hair…”
Círdan drew near, and plucked up a tress in his fingers, twisting it…holding on.
“Had you not ever wondered why you had no other close kin among the Laiquendi? Why there were no uncles or cousins to go home to after the First Battle?”
“I had not given it much thought.”
“I have. You are as rare as….well, as rare as one of Fëanor’s precious jewels. At least to me.”
Círdan grasped Erestor’s head between his hands and leaned toward him, touching his forehead to the darkling elf’s.
“You have always seemed different to me, Erestor. In all the most pleasing of ways, of course. But, your hair…your inquisitive nature and bent toward learning…even your name – it is not a name used among those still this side of Belegaer. I have always thought that maybe you had been separated from your kin during the Great Journey. You did not feel…a certain sense of, I do not know how to say it…belonging… amongst the Noldor?”
“Círdan,” Erestor said, looking up and into the deep grey eyes of his lover.
“This is not the first time you have tried to push me away – first to Doriath and now this. Would you have me leave you?”
“Oh,” sighed Círdan, “Oh no.” Drawing Erestor into his arms, nestling his head into the ebon dark of his hair.
Erestor embraced the ship-wright tightly and drew him close.
“Even if it were true, my love. Even if…still would I choose to remain in Eglarest, in the Falas, in your arms. I reside here,” said Erestor, touching Círdan’s heart with the palm of his hand.
He slid his arm downward and grasped Círdan’s hand, entwining their fingers as he turned toward the bed chamber.
“Come. Let me show you just how much I belong to you…”
- Late Valian Year 1497 –
For all of his long life, Círdan would ever after cite the days after Erestor’s return from Doriath as the point at which his destiny had been sealed. For Erestor had returned, against his greatest fear, and their reunion had been momentous.
The darkling elf had tales to tell and his very face shone with enlightenment. While in Menegroth, he had indeed learned much and was eager to share all that he knew with Círdan.
He withdrew drawings and papers from his pouch, showing Círdan the Cirthas that Daeron had taught him, and he had songs. Songs that he sang to Cirdan in a clear tenor ere since the time of his return. He had maps of Beleriand, detailed beyond any that had existed in Eglarest. He had learned of Valinor from the Maia, Melian, herself. And he had learned yet another dialect of the language of the elves.
It was then that the tables had turned. Where once Erestor had been the one full of questions, now it was Círdan’s turn, and he found himself becoming more and more reliant on Erestor’s knowledge and advice.
But it had been another change that had impacted the pair beyond any other. For at Menegroth, Erestor had been awakened to the possibilities of love…and the body.
“Why have you never married?” asked Erestor, one day, as if plucking the question out of mid-air.
The query made Círdan most uncomfortable, and his eyes widened with alarm at the answer he knew that he would eventually have to give. He bit at his lip for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning toward Erestor.
“Why have you not?”
“Do not make me play the game of ‘I asked you first,’ Círdan. There are certainly more than enough eligible maidens between here and Brithombar. Why have you not chosen one to take as your wife? Surely, it cannot be that you think yourself an unsuitable match. You are Lord of the Falas….and not unattractive in the least…”
“But I am,” answered Círdan, hesitantly, “Most unsuitable, that is.”
Over their long acquaintance, Erestor had not been immune to the furtive glances cast his way by the ship-wright. Nor of the fact that he had offered his own, in return. But it was not until the visit to Doriath had coalesced his thoughts and feelings that he finally had begun to understand just what it was that was between them. Not wishing to make Círdan even more uneasy, he thought to begin with his own understanding in hope that it would enable Círdan to give voice to his own.
“You know,” began Erestor, “When I was at Menegroth, I learned more than just runes, or song or history. I saw…and experienced…some things that I had not considered before, or at least not known were acceptable to other elves.”
“Oh? Such as…” queried Círdan.
“Such as the fact that not all males take females to be their mates. That though rare, a male may love a male or a female a female and that it is not the norm, but it is not unacceptable either. It does happen, and it is just as beautiful as any other expression of love between two.”
“You have…experienced…this?” asked Círdan.
“Aye,” answered Erestor, “and I have come to find out that I too would be a most unsuitable mate for any female of Eglarest, or Brithombar, or any other place. Is this what you have been trying to say?”
Círdan took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. A small smile crossed his lips as he raised his head and looked up, meeting Erestor’s eyes with a glimmer of small hope in his own.
“That is what I am trying to say, Erestor. If it makes you uncomfortable, we can most certainly find you somewhere else to stay….I would not want you to think…”
Before Círdan could finish his thought, Erestor came near and took the Teleri’s face between his fingers. He smiled knowingly into Círdan’s eyes and cocked his head.
“Why is it that you think I have returned, Círdan? I found my true nature in Doriath, and I am not sorry for it. I came back, because while I was there, I thought I recognized just what it was that had ever existed between us. I had hoped that you might feel the same.”
Círdan dropped his head to Erestor’s shoulder and let out a long shuddering breath.
“It is so, then?” the darkling elf whispered.
Círdan inhaled long and took handfuls of Erestor’s hair between his fingers. Finally, he removed his face from his beloved’s nape and looked directly into the pointedly dark pinpricks of Erestor’s.
“It is just so, Erestor.”
Grinning widely, Erestor encircled Círdan’s waist with his arms.
“I am glad,” he said, and brought his mouth to the ship-wright’s, gently skimming his tongue over Círdan’s lips.
Unleashed at last, Círdan took Erestor’s mouth in a fervent kiss and backed their still embracing bodies toward the bed chamber.
“Are you sure that you are ready for this?”
“Oh yes,” came the answer, “I have waited long enough.”
And so it was that Erestor became not only the right-hand of the Lord of the Falas, but also his mate, though ever after it would be Erestor’s part to lead them there, to the union of their bodies, and Círdan’s to consummate it utterly, possessing the darkling elf with the wild and all-encompassing abandon that his heart had so longed for.
- Valian Year 1500 – The First Year of the Sun –
Time seemed to pass slowly since Dagor-nuin-Giliath, and Erestor had gone several times more out of the safe confines of Eglarest, visiting Doriath, and even once again to the shores of Lake Mithrim. He still had not convinced the Elvenking at Menegroth to treat with the returned Fëanorians, but had brought news, and also had instituted a system of runners to carry messages between the largest of the elven realms.
No further forays were made by the dark servants of Morgoth, who kept behind his walls at Angband, though from time to time Erestor, or others, would see small groups of orcs heading north, presumably to join their master at the stronghold. Maglor and his brothers had all but given up hope for Maedhros, and knew that they had not the strength to assail the Dark Lord in his own fortress.
The life in the Falas continued – ships plied the coastline, and the fisheries and farms still served its people with their bounty, though Círdan and Erestor were ever wary and kept a watchful eye on the events outside of the city’s walls.
It was as if all of Beleriand was holding its breath…waiting.
Once the day’s work had ended, Círdan would oftentimes entice Erestor to walk with him along the shore. Hands intertwined, sometimes silently, and sometime in deep conversation, together they contemplated all that had come to pass and pondered the future.
“I do not know what is to come,” said Círdan, “though I do not think that we have seen the last of Morgoth. I fear that he is hoarding his strength and biding his time. Oh, that he would have never come back here.”
“I, too, wish it,” answered Erestor, “but for one small part.”
“Were it not for his return and the cost of it, I would never have come to you.”
Círdan leaned into his lover and placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. Erestor smiled and nestled his head into Círdan’s neck.
“Let us sit for a time.”
Together they sat upon the shore, shoulders touching; silent, as they watched the waves come and go. They looked toward the vast and endless sky, and saw the beauty of the stars reflected in the shimmering water.
“What is that?” asked Erestor, pointing to a place where the sky met the water.
“What is that?” he asked again, quickly rising to his feet. “There. Over there.”
“Círdan?”
The ship-wright strained his eyes to see where Erestor had been pointing and then, at once, saw what Erestor had.
A small sliver of bright light, brighter than any of the stars that he had known since his awakening. And it grew brighter still, and larger, as it made its way up from the horizon, filling the sky with its luminous light. As a pearl it rose from the sea and soon they beheld the vast sphere of its whole body as it showed itself fully.
Two pairs of awed eyes watched the wondrous light as it rose ever higher in the sky, until it was above them, illuminating for the first time, the faces of the pair that beheld it.
“I do not know what it is. Only the Valar have the power to do such a thing. Elbereth!” Círdan cried, as he sank once again to his knees, face turned upward, basking in the glory of the light.
Erestor knelt next to him, grasping his arm with an iron grip.
“What does it mean?”
“I am not sure. There has been no communication from the Undying Lands for lo these many years – no messenger, nor spirit, no vision or dream. Not since the Dark One returned. Perhaps the Valar have taken pity on us at last and have sent a portent of their renewed involvement on our behalf. I do not know. But I cannot think it harmful. Look at it, Erestor. It is beautiful and full of light. The enemy does not like the light.”
“I am not afraid,” said Erestor, “but the people may be. We should be getting back, they will need you.”
“Wait,” answered Círdan, turning to his beloved.
“Turn your head thusly,” he said, tilting Erestor’s head just so.
The new light shone on Erestor’s face, illuminating his porcelain skin and tipping the ends of his near-black hair with deep shades of indigo.
“Oh yes,” sighed Círdan, “anything that can make you even more beautiful to me can be naught but good. I love you, Erestor. And though I believe that great change is coming, I am glad that you are here, with me.”
They could not know what the rising of the new light meant, nor what was to come, but they hoped and felt blessed, as together they walked the sands by the starlit sea toward home.
The End
A/N: Normally, I would footnote and explain everything, but as your request was for an unusual pairing and time period, I will presume that you know quite a bit of The Silmarillion and the words/languages and events that I have used in this story. I will note that I used David Salo’s Gateway to Sindarin, to name the two OC’s, Talathdir and Belldîs and that their names mean, respectively, “male of the flatlands,” and “female – strong of body.” I will be happy to provide explanations of any of the other terms/ideas upon your request.