Moving Forward by StarSpray

He stood at the edge of the broken world, staring at the roiling, angry waves and thinking of the lands that lay now beneath. Of the once-bright cities and once-tall mountains, ruined and broken. Of the once-mighty trees that had been torn from the ground. Not even the thick, strong roots of Hirilorn had been enough to withstand the wrath of the Valar.

Daeron turned away, fingers itching for his harp, mind already crafting words to sing of his home and its beautiful lands so that he (and anyone who heard) would never forget that which was lost now forever.

Círdan stooped to pick up a piece of driftwood. The beaches – jagged, rocky things – were strewn with the stuff. Once, the wood he held had been a part of a mighty tree, with a thick, sturdy trunk that could endure any storm, except war.

All along the beaches Elves and Men wandered, gathering driftwood for fuel, or to build temporary homes, until stone could be brought from farther inland to build proper cities and harbors.

The Valar thought those who refused to follow them West unwise. Gil-galad and others – Galadriel, Oropher (and Círdan himself) – were determined to prove them wrong.

As the world crumbled, Morgoth’s once-great lieutenant slunk away, heading eastward. For many years he wandered, passing through the great forests of Eriador and Rhovanion, without even a broken twig to mark his passing.

At last he came to a land walled by mountains, like broken teeth jutting into the sky. And the mountain of fire: the perfect forge where he would craft his most powerful weapons. It would take many decades in the count of Men and Elves to gather his forces and fortify this land properly, but Sauron was patient.

Eventually, he would succeed where Melkor had failed.

Wood shavings and stray pieces of bark crunched under Gil-galad’s feet as he walked, examining the lumber being prepared by both Edain and Laiquendi. It would then go to build homes and ships and other necessary things, while the wood not turned into lumber would be used for fuel.

Rebuilding was harder, perhaps, than anyone had expected it to be. They were a motley group, who had chosen to remain, united mostly by stubbornness and shared grief.

And hope. Morgoth was defeated; now they could build without fear of balrogs and dragons coming to destroy everything with fire and hatred.

“Well, what did you find?” Lindir asked as Elrond dropped to the ground. “How far does the forest stretch?”

Elrond wiped his sap-sticky hands on his tunic and smiled. “Far beyond what I can see,” he said. “It is as Círdan said: a squirrel could likely pass from here to the Hithaeglir without ever touching the ground.”

The sound of music suddenly reached them, but not Elvish song. “Hop along, my little friends…” Elrond blinked, and the strangest little man danced into view, with a feather in his hat and bright yellow boots, followed by at least a dozen rabbits.

It didn’t take long for the Elven groups to start branching out, heading east through Eriador and beyond.

Celeborn stripped small branches from a longer limb to make a walking stick as he listened to Celebrimbor talk with other smiths about settling near the western entrance of Khazad-dûm. Galadriel sat nearby, also listening—with a glint in her eyes that Celeborn recognized.

Their conversation later went as expected. Celebimbor was a craftsman, not a leader. Someone would need to make sure the settlement didn’t fall apart when he lost interest.

Celeborn sighed. Noldor and Dwarves. Wonderful. “When do we leave?”

Elros crouched by the pale sapling already being called Nimloth by most, and brushed his fingers lightly over the tiny silver-green leaves just starting to unfurl. It was a gift from the Elves of Eressëa, who had placed the seedling carefully into Elros’s hands, so that he, as king, could plant it.

Elves were very fond of symbolic action. Especially those who dwelt in the Blessed Realm.

But he didn’t mind. Seeing Nimloth grow and flourish in his island’s soil beneath his care was like an affirmation that he had made the right choice, in spite of all his doubts.

Vingilot’s sails swelled with the winds of heaven, leaving stardust rippling in her wake. Eärendil gazed over the railing at the world below. The lands he had known were broken and sunk beneath the sea, but new kingdoms were springing up like new saplings in ancient forests as he watched.

Could he be blamed if he watched Númenor and Lindon with the most interest? Elros bore one crown; Elrond served another, each doing more to shape the future of Middle-earth than perhaps they realized.

He wondered what they thought, when they looked up on clear evenings to see his star.