Preparation by StarSpray

Chapter 1

The morning after the new star appeared in the west, Círdan went down to a small cove on the western edge of Balar. It was relatively sheltered, and there was a rock that jutted up out of the waves that was easy to wade out to at low tide. Círdan splashed out to it and sat, legs crossed, and waited. The sun was high and bright and the skies were clear. In the north, where Círdan could not see while in the cove, there were dark clouds, still leagues and leagues away, but every day growing darker and larger and creeping inexorably south.

Balar was now the only place in Beleriand even marginally safe, unless there were hidden glades in Ossiriand where the Green Elves still dwelled. Círdan hoped so, but it was no longer possible to send someone to see for sure. Even the Havens of Sirion were largely abandoned; after the Fëanorians had came and gone and left only ashes in their wake, no one had been able to bring themselves to rebuild.

After a while, the waters at the base of the rock swirled together, and out of them rose a familiar figure. When Ossë took physical form to speak to the Elves he never bothered to do more than make himself recognizable as something more than a wave, and something capable of speech. Círdan had long ago grown used to it, but he remembered the first time that Ossë had risen out of the waves, when he stood on the mainland gaping at the vastness of the sea, and how he had been so startled that he'd tried to back up and tripped over his own feet instead, landing hard on wet stand. Ossë's laughter had been like water crashing on rocks—a dangerous sound, but also joyful and wild and beautiful.

He did not laugh now. "Círdan, my friend," he said, in a voice like the whisper of water over smooth sand.

"What does it mean, that a Silmaril now shines in the western sky?" Círdan asked. There were nearly as many guesses as there were folk on Balar, but he needed more than half-hopeful, half-fearful murmurings if he was to decide what to do.

"It means the Valar are moving," said Ossë. As he spoke a breeze picked up, coming out of the west and off the sea, bringing a clean smell and a burst of spray that settled over Círdan, clinging to his hair in droplets like tiny gems. "They will march forth ere long, to go to war again against Melkor." Ossë seemed to quiver, in anticipation or excitement or dread, Círdan could not tell. "You must prepare yourself, my friend. The world will change with this battle. The seas will rise and the land will sink, and there will be no returning to the Falas or to Doriath or to Gondolin."

Círdan gazed out over the water, tried to imagine the waves rising high enough to swallow all of Beleriand. He shuddered. "We will need ships," he said. Ossë inclined his head. "Thank you, my friend."

There were murmurings and protests when Círdan returned and began ordering the felling of trees in Arvernien. It was timbering on a scale they had never practiced before. But when Círdan told them of Ossë's warnings the arguments ceased. Better to fell the trees now than to drown with them. The shipyards of Balar swarmed with workers, busy as beehives, raising a new forest of masts, swaying and drifting on the water. Whatever the Valar wrought in their war upon Angband, they would be ready.