Where the Ocean Meets the Sky and the Land by StarSpray

Chapter 7: Interlude

It was cold out beyond the airs of Arda, and dark. The enchantments upon Vingilot protected Eärendil from the worst of it, but he wished he had thought to bring heavier clothes. He had been accompanied by two of Varda's Maiar, but they didn't feel the cold and had not thought to warn him about it. The promise of wonders beyond his imagination was almost enough to make it easy to ignore any discomfort, but it would be quite a long time before he actually saw any such things—for now his task was to stay on course over Arda, so that all who looked up might see him and know that they were not forgotten, nor were the Valar idle.

Before Vingilot had taken flight, Eönwë had come to Eärendil with a gift. It was a spyglass, plain to look at and not much different from the one he already had. It had been made for him by Aulë himself, Eönwë had said with a smile, before bidding him fare journeying. Now Eärendil pulled it out as they passed over Beleriand. Even from so far he could see how the land was scarred, could see the dark blight on green Tumladen that had once been Gondolin. He peered through the spyglass and gasped, lowering it almost immediately.

It was almost like being there—an eagle's view instead of a star's, maybe. Eärendil held up the glass again and gazed down on the broken towers, blackened and burned, on the fountains now choked with leaves and growth. It was surprisingly green—the gardens that had not been destroyed with the city were now growing over, rose vines climbing over broken walls, tree roots cracking the stone streets, moss covering once-vibrant frescoes.

There was something encouraging about that. Eärendil trained the spyglass on his grandfather's tower, now a pile of rubble serving as his cairn, and saw that even there the wild was returning to cover it, with tiny flowers blooming amid the scorched stone.

Flowers covered Glorfindel's tomb, too—yellow ones bobbing in the breeze.

Eärendil turned away from Gondolin, seeking the lands to the south, trailing along Sirion down to its wide delta. The ruins of the Havens were horribly easy to find, blackened and broken and too new for anything to have grown over them. Eärendil did not allow himself to look away. He gazed for a long time at every detail, from the burned out harbor to the ruins of his own house.

On Balar there were a great deal of people, many of them standing outside gazing upward—at him, he realized after a moment of confusion. Of course. A new star had risen, and anyone who had seen the Silmaril surely recognized it now. He spotted Círdan and Gil-galad, and Annael his foster-grandfather, their faces alight with excitement and new-kindled hope. He saw Celebrimbor, too, somber and standing apart and wearing the heavy leather gloves and apron from his forge, as though he had been called away from his work.

Eärendil searched the island thoroughly, looking at every face. But he did not see his sons.