Gil-galad was an elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing;
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
High rose the mountains of the north above her, blue diamonds against a blue sky, and the Sea-Strider looked out with clear eyes upon the shores of Lindon, and beheld the Grey Havens.
Once, in ages gone by, this whole land had been the easternmost portion of the great western continent of Beleriand. The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, had formed a great fence between that land and the rest of Middle-Earth. But a war undreamt of had come to Middle-Earth in Elder Days, and fair Beleriand had been burnt and shattered and at the last drowned broken beneath the waves. Lindon, in the east, had been all that survived -- but even this land had not escaped the Great War unscathed, for the oceans had been driven up over the land until they broke through the Blue Mountains, splitting the land in two. The great bay which had formed there in the heart of broken Lindon had been known ever after as the Gulf of Lune.
At the dawn of the Second Age, the last elvish survivors of that ancient strife had come to Lindon, and there they remained. They were refugees of Gondolin and Nargothrond, who had ruled and warred in Beleriand long eons before the fathers of men awoke, and were unwilling or unable to abandon what little remained of those lands for which they had suffered so dearly and for so long. Three shining harbors they had raised on the shores of the Gulf of Lune -- Forlond, Harlond, and Mithlond -- that became known in later years as the Grey Havens. The lands about the Havens had grown in the long centuries since into a realm of wonder and plenty, a refuge for the dwindling eldest of the Eldar, a fading echo of greater glories.
And all that wonder, all that lost power, all that ancient craft, all that memory -- all of it had been centered,
here, in Mithlond. Even in far Númenor they whispered of this city, and for good reason. The entire city was bathed in a white mist that wreathed the towers and bridges and halls. The city gleamed in that gloom, an unearthly mirage of some forgotten splendor, and every part of it recalled in Inzilbeth's mind the stories of her girlhood. Seven towers of glittering white stabbed the sky, as pillars of diamond, and they might have been the spires of lost Gondolin, or the snow-capped towers of Himring the Evercold. Lamps of crystal pale as glass hung above bridges of adamant that stretched as if held by air, and they seemed a faint echo of the lamplit towers of Tirion on Tûna, or those bright lamps which had lit the stone halls of Nargothrond long ago. These lamps burned with no flame, but instead held quenchless globes of pale light which shone brighter than any flame, so that the whole of the city was bathed always in a glow that was somewhere between silver and gold, and the glow stirred fading memories of endless and deathless years in the West. In the harbor stood a hundred hundred ships as white as ivory, carved in the shape of swans, with tall sails and silver lanterns, and their banners burned with a living light, like the ships of the Teleri that had burned before the sun.
Such was the city of the Noldor, and the King's Men hated it above all other places of the elves.
The
Pillar sailed gently into the great harbor. She stood head and shoulders above the ships of the elves, and should have dominated it — yet she did not. Small, she seemed almost, though Inzilbeth could not name how or why. Her crew strode onto the wharf, and the elves of the Havens came to meet them. Tall were they, as tall as the Kings of Men, and many among Inzilbeth's crew (some for the first time in their long lives) had to look up when they greeted them. Their eyes were old eyes, and there was a light in them that seemed to burn. The elves of Edhellond had smiled and sang and cheered to see them — but the elves of the Havens reminded her more of Galadriel. They were tall and grim and fair, and when they smiled it was sad. Many, after the greetings were done, sat upon the shores of the harbor and stared out at the sea, and there was something in their faces Inzilbeth could not begin to name.
As the crowd melted about them, an Elf approached along the harbor. He was tall — they all were — but he was also bent with age, and walked slowly. A great white beard hung from his face. Inzilbeth broke into a smile at the sight of him, and rushed forth into an embrace. The old elf clasped her tightly, and his old eyes twinkled like stars.
"
Telconairë. You are a wonder. It has been too long, my friend. I had wondered if some other port or sea had captured thy heart."
She broke the hug and bowed deeply.
"Not now, not ever. Long have I sailed, and far, since last we parted, and yet no fairer harbor have I beheld in all the earth than the Havens of Cirdan. I humbly ask permission of the master of the Haven to winter in his port."
The old elf laughed, and it was as the breaking of a tide. "A flatterer, as ever. The Havens welcome you, as they always have. You are a friend of the harbor and the harbor-master, and may go where you will."
Inzilbeth rose and smiled again, but sadly. "I am afraid, Lord Cirdan, that it is not friendship which brings me here. Is he in the city?"
The oldest mariner in Middle-Earth nodded. "He is in the White Square, entertaining the people as has been his wont of late. He has been troubled, as am I."
"It seems it is a time of troubles, my lord. I worry for all the north."
Cirdan smiled, and it was sad, as were all the smiles of his people. "Troubles come and pass and come again. Even the greatest darkness is but a passing thing. I will not tell you not to worry - but do not despair, for despair is ever and always our enemy's foremost weapon, by which he lays low his foes from afar."
Cirdan paused a moment and stared out over the sea. Something nameless flickered in the ancient eyes.
"Now come," he rumbled. "The king awaits."
Cirdan turned and strode away, and Inzilbeth followed.
The city and the mist swallowed them quickly, and as Inzilbeth walked through the streets, she felt almost as if she was stepping back in time. Elves sat gathered in small courtyards or beside glistening fountains. Sometimes they sang, but the songs were low and somber, and the words she understood tore at her heart. Mostly, however, they were silent. They dreamed or meditated or walked aimless along the golden streets, and stared through Inzilbeth as she passed, and they were silent. The whole of the city was steeped in an old and endless silence.
Even many among the Faithful did not tarry overlong in Mithlond, and Inzilbeth understood why. The city was fair and high and beautiful, but there was a terrible longing in the air. It was a city in mourning, or a city of mourners, or a city to be mourned — perhaps all three. One could almost feel the weight of fifty thousand years pressing down upon every stone and every step. If Edhellond had felt frozen in time, then Mithlond was paralyzed in it. Time stretched on and on and on here, and the Elves stretched with it.
After they had been walking for a while, Inzilbeth began to hear a music, faint yet clear, rising above the mist. It was a high voice, and strong, but the sadness in it might have brought the mountains low. It rumbled and shook and bent as it sang, and the words it sang were sadder yet. The song told of the elven-king Finrod, who had been the lord of Nargothrond long ago. Golden had been his hair, and golden his halls, the song went, fair his face and fairer his folk. Kind and noble and strong above all else was he, a flower of nobility, most beloved of all the princes of the elves, a friend to dwarves and elves and men alike. But long ago, the singer said, now almost weeping, his golden star had sunk on the Black Isle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Long ago and far away, for the sake of love and friendship, he had wrestled with that dark and terrible spirit known as Sauron — and long ago and far away, alone in the dark, Finrod Felagund had died. Gone was the golden lord and gone were the golden halls, gone down in the west into shadow.
As the final strains of the song played, Círdan and Inzilbeth stepped into a wide court marked with pale white tiles. A great crowd was gathered here, sitting or standing upon the white stones, and before them all, kneeling in the center of the court beneath the boughs of a mighty mallorn oak, was the singer. The last notes of the song dropped from his lips as he lowered his harp. His golden hair fell like water about his waist, and he wore a plain off-white shift, the color of sand.
The crowd did not clap, or cheer, but the silence which filled the air when the music stopped was applause enough. Some wept. Some smiled, and it was sad, as were all the smiles of the Noldor.
The singer rose and bowed deeply before the crowd. The slim face was beautiful and fair, with high cheekbones and deepset eyes. The eyes were perhaps the most arresting of all — they were the cold blue of a crashing sea, and gleamed like dark pools. There was a light in them, and it was as starlight.
Inzilbeth approached slowly, and the crowd parted silently before her.
The tall singer saw her coming, and bowed deeply as she entered his presence.
"An unexpected audience, but not an unwelcome one. I bid you glad greetings, friend of the elves. It is an honor to see you once more."
Inzilbeth dropped to a knee. "The honor is mine, Gil-Galad."
"Please, Inzilbeth, call me Ereinion. I will not hold myself to titles in my own city. And rise. No king am I of Elros' people."
Inzilbeth arose. "You go by your mother-name now, my lord?"
"Such as it is: Ereinion, 'child of kings'. I am a child of many kings who have passed into the west, and their memories have hung heavy over me of late. Gil-Galad is a high name, for a higher day — and these are not high days."
He fixed her with a long look. "I expect I know already the purpose of your journey, and perhaps even more of what you intend to tell me: A city of the High Men stands on the Angren, shadows awake in the lands of men, and foulness in Gundabad."
Inzilbeth blinked away her shock. "Aye, lord, all that and more, but—"
"How have I come to know these things? Riders from Rivendell, scouts in the wild, eagles on the heights — I have many eyes and friends in the north. They tell of things done in the lands of men both great and terrible. One thing they tell above all else: one of your own has struck deeply against the power in Gundabad."
"Struck? I did not think Imrazôr would move so quickly to action."
"No marching host or great battle was this, but an act of mercy and love, the echoes of which may be long felt in these lands. The Black Mountain itself has been assailed, and robbed of the fruits of it's plunder. It is a noble act, and one worthy of song, but I fear that whatever enemy lies within Gundabad may now be moved to greater action. Their inactivity has been a caution — and if they understand now that the time for caution is past, then they may cast subtlety aside."
"You speak as if you are familiar with this enemy, my lord."
The High King frowned, a cloud over a fair plain. "Familiar may be too strong a phrase. But I see in this hand that moves about Eriador echoes of familiar things. Control, planning, caution — and an avoidance of this land and of my eye in particular which is too practiced to be fear alone. Once I believed it to be but the signs of the direction of Sauron, but now I begin to wonder. The Enemy is turned to the south — yet whatever moves against us now moves with all his guile and cunning."
Inzilbeth felt a chill run over her at that. The High Elves had been fighting the Shadow for millennia. If they recognized such a terrible malice in Gundabad…
"So you will aid us, should it come to it?"
Ereinion hesitated. "If I am forced to act openly, then this enemy of ours may act in kind. If all their actions thus far have been made with the intent of avoiding my notice, I dare not imagine what evils we may wake them to by acting too early. "
Inzilbeth understood, but still the nervousness would not quiet within her. "And if the enemy moves against us? What then? Can we look to the north for the white ships?"
Ereinion fixed her with a heavy gaze. "The hosts of Númenor have grown vast and strong, I hear, and their kings clothe themselves in gold and splendor. They do not love the elves, or this city — but if I have heard true, they
fear the Host of the Noldor. Men act quickly and rashly against that which they fear. How would your great king react, I wonder, should he hear that Gil-Galad has landed upon the Gwathlo —
his Gwathlo — with ten thousand spears? I have no wish to make war on the sons of Elros, but your people are foolish and quick to anger, and count themselves no more among the elf-friends."
Inzilbeth understood, at last. "And so you weigh the risk of contending with both Gundabad and Númenor."
The elf-lord nodded. "My people still have not recovered from the war of Sauron. I am loath to thrust them into another such conflict. What is more, I do not think you grasp fully what you ask of me, Sea-Strider."
The bright eyes shone, like noon-stars in the day.
"The Noldor have not marched for four generations of the High Men. You have forgotten the wrath of the elves, save in song and story — and your people tell no songs of the Noldor any longer. Understand now that it is not fear or caution which stay my hand, or give me cause to suffer the thousand insolences of 'Ar-Belzagar' in silence. I love this land. I have grown fond of this wild north and the men who people it."
The star-bright eyes were so sad, and so old, but there was ice in those pools of blue. "I would not like to see it all burn."
There was a long silence in the air again, and it was terrible.
A snippet of a book, long read and long forgotten, rose unbidden in Inzilbeth's mind.
...for so great was the fury of those adversaries that the northern regions of the western world were rent asunder, and the sea roared in through many chasms, and there was confusion and great noise; and rivers perished or found new paths, and the valleys were upheaved and the hills trod down…
She looked at the elvenking again. He did not look terrible in his power, as his kinswoman Galadriel had, nor did he loom above her. He was of a height with Inzilbeth herself, shorter even than some Númenóreans. But those eyes — those bright eyes like icy stars! Child of kings he was, heir of Finrod the fair who grappled Sauron, of Fingolfin who made Morgoth bleed, of Fëanor that had mocked heaven and defied Doom. Child of kings, yes, and child of legends, too — but a child of kinslayers also.
No, she thought to herself, she had not grasped what she asked of him.
She made answer. "The men of the north shall hold the north, then. Gundabad will break upon our walls as
Zigûrun broke so long ago."
Ereinion smiled, and it was sad, as all the smiles of his people. Yet the ice passed, and the bright eyes did not shine so clear or cold. "And well that they should. I will aid them as it is in my power to do so. Yet…mind this: I welcomed the Númenóreans in friendship, once, when they returned to the shores of Middle-Earth. They landed in this harbor, walked these streets, pledged friendship eternal. Now the north is cold, and the forests are gone, and gone are the Ents, and the Entwives, and the small men who smiled to see the sun. My lands have grown silent, and lonely, and it is no work of Sauron."
"The old bonds have been broken, my lord, but there are some left who strive to mend them."
"Not enough, I fear. And there are some things which may not be mended, nor undone. But heed: the warning was not for myself alone. These lands have other guardians, and older masters. They have no love lost any longer for the tall men of Elenna. Be wary. Dig not too deep, nor cut too far, nor lord too high. The Men of the West have come to believe that none may challenge them — but there are things they remember not, which should never have been forgotten."
The High King's warning was sadder and more terrible than any line of his song had been, and the words rang in Inzilbeth's ears as she bowed.
"Thank you for this audience, my lord."
He bowed in return. "Now, let us speak no more of dark things. Sit, instead, and listen."
Inzilbeth obeyed, finding a clear spot in the wide courtyard to sit down. The mists swept in overhead as Ereinion Gil-Galad, scion of many kings, picked up his harp. He stood, breathed in, and began to sing. Each note of his song was bright and clear and sharp, and fell like the rolling years.
Men cenuva fánë cirya
métima hrestallo círa,
i fairi nécë
ringa súmaryassë
ve maiwi yaimië?
