The Shipwright and the Elm Tree by Raiyana

The Shipwright and the Elm Tree

The ladies of the Noldor were unlike his own people, Círdan thought, looking at the inhabitants of Hithlum. Although some possessed the almost airy grace of the Doriathren, and some had the same litheness and swift movements of his own, the ellith scattered among the Noldor possessed something more, something nearly grim in their countenances. Evidence of suffering and war, he supposed, walking through Hithlum and pretending to take note of what captain something-or-other – he had been introduced, but to Círdan’s ears the name was nonsensical and he rather thought he must have misheard… surely not even Kinslayers could be named spy? – was pointing out.

In truth, Círdan was far more occupied with watching the people milling about and wondering at how normal they all looked, aside from the obvious scars their lives had brought them, than listening to blather about fortifications. As though he knew anything about fortifying a camp such as this, as though he could say ‘Well done.’ if only they were explained just right. It hardly mattered that their words were almost foreign – this one at least must have been in contact with Olwë’s people before, in Aman, but his accent remained atrocious – Círdan preferred to observe and form his own opinion on things.

The few ellyn he had met so far had all been tall, dark-haired like he remembered Finwë, and some had had surprisingly dark skin, like nuts browned by the sun. The ellith, however, he had not met before, though he had been told there were ellith among the Noldor forces – some considered it scandalous, but they did not remember the Time of Starlight when everyone had shared equally in the perils of the Journey regardless of sex.

“HA!”

The loud shout interrupted the train of his thoughts, making him turn his head to the side to watch one of these lady-warriors – surely, she was a warrior, wielding a sword – who had seemingly just bested her opponent, the ellon lying on the ground with his hands raised in surrender. She laughed. Tossing her dark hair back, she raised the weapon that had been pointed at his throat, and offered her companion a hand to stand. Círdan realised his feet had stopped, only because his guide stopped talking, but he hardly cared, watching the triumph light her face, her grey eyes twinkling with light that did not come from the stars. She was not the prettiest elleth he had ever seen, but something in her spirit, vivacious despite the hardships that had marked it, drew the eye. Strength, he thought, but subtle, like a young elm bending in a storm but never breaking. Lalwen.

She noticed the old elf looking at her when she had wiped the sweat from her brow and heckled Hallaner a little for losing so quickly – usually he gave her a harder fight – she was almost disappointed. He was a stranger, which was not so unusual; she knew most of those who lived in Hithlum, but newcomers showed up often. What did surprise her was the clear assessment in his gaze, as though she was being weighed by the old one – he must be old, the beginnings of a beard growing along his jaw-line. Irimë stood straighter, giving him Artë’s haughtiest stare – somehow, it never worked as well for her – but the stranger simply smiled, nodding his head at her as he raised his fourth finger to his brow, before turning back to whatever Ettir was saying. He did not look back, the silvery pale hair marking him quite clearly as related to the Teleri gathered in a long intricate braid decorated with sea-shells.

“Who is that?” she asked, frowning.

Hallaner shrugged, picking up the sword he had lost after she tried a move she had learned from Tyelkormo once upon a time, and moving into the ready position once more. “Must be that ship-making fellow from what’s-it-called,” he replied, adjusting his grip.

“Lord Círyatan came?” she asked, gaping. No one had believed he would, not really, though they had extended the invitation regardless.

Leaving Hallaner behind with little more than a rushed farewell, Irimë sped off towards the centre of Hithlum. She longed for a bath, but if they were to greet a diplomatic visitor of such importance as Olwë’s long-estranged kinsman, she knew Ñolofinwë would want all of them present as a matter of pride.

She stood with the King when he was shown to the hall that housed the children of Finwë, which made him recognise the family resemblance to his old friend. Lalwen might be one of the daughters? They claimed he had several; though one had remained in Aman.

“Círyatan heru,” the ellon greeted, smiling in a way that was purely Finwë. Círdan felt suddenly transported back through so many yén it seemed slightly unreal, though he roused himself enough to bow in return. “Allow me to introduce my family; my sons, Fingon, and Turgon, and my daughter, Aredhel.” The young ones – too young to have such old eyes – bowed politely as this… Finwë nGolwenfinwë was his name, yes… Fingolfin continued, “and my sister, Irimë.”

Not so fitting as Lalwen, Círdan thought, too light and airy for the warrior standing before him, her eyes slate-grey like the winter-sea and promising the possibility of storms. He thought he should like to watch those storms; feeling a smile stretch his lips at the thought.

Coming to Hithlum might prove more interesting than he had assumed when he received the invitation.

“I am pleased to meet the children of Finwë,” he said, nodding politely, which did not seem to ameliorate the heart behind those grey eyes. “I am Círdan, master of Ships.”