West we will return by Failisse

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West

"At the bidding of Turgon Círdan built seven swift ships, and they sailed out into the West; but no tidings of them came ever back to Balar, save of one, and the last." J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

 

The crew of the first ship that was to sail West at the behest of Turgon Fingolfinion, now High King of the Noldor in Beleriand, or what was left of them anyway, stood before Círdan, a sorry bunch of wearied elves. They'd come from the North, fought their way through the orcs who roamed Beleriand, just to risk everything in defiance of the Ban.

The Lord of the Falas regarded the five of them. They were a mix of Noldor and Sindar alike, grey-eyed, blue-eyed, shades of hair ranging from jet black to a pale blonde, three of them dressed in blues, the other two in a smudged yellow-white blend.

One of the blue-clothed stepped forward. His hair was a sun-bleached blonde, and his features were sun-tanned. "Hail unto you, Lord Círdan of the Falathrim." he spoke. "My name is Tîrpethron of the House of the Fountain, and High King Turgon has elected me to lead this sailing expedition, together with my crew."

Círdan nodded. "And greetings to you, Tîrpethron of the Fountain, and your crew. Be welcome on the Isle of Balar." The five sailors dipped their heads in respect.

"Thank you for your hospitality, milord." Tîrpethron said.

Círdan walked towards them. "You must be weary from your travels. Please, let my housekeeper find you all a bed to rest for a while." A few small smiles and sighs.

Círdan nodded to a young elf who stood on the side of the tent-room. "Limion, bring these guests to Lindariel, would you? Say that they are guests in need of rest in a good bed. She should be in the storage tent."

The youngster nodded. "O'course, m'Lord." he said in a Falathrim accent. "If you'd follow me?" He led the five Gondolindrim out of the room.

 

The next morning, Tîrpethron was shaken awake.

 "Sir? Sir! Sir!" He opened his eyes. "Sir, are you alright? Should I get a healer?" 

Tîrpethron blinked the sleep from his eyes and recognised Limion, the youngster who'd brought them to the housekeeper the previous day. "Calm, boy, I'm fine. Just very tired." 

"But sir, your eyes were closed!" Limion exclaimed worriedly.

"Nay, child, I'm quite healthy. No need for a healer. Now, what did you come to say?" 

"Oh, er, sir, m'Lord Círdan'd like t'speak t'you, sir. He says if you'll meet him at the dock in half'n hour, then he'll show you your ship." Limion hastily said, nearly stumbling over his words.

Tîrpethron laughed a hearty laugh. "You needn't be so hasty! But thank you for the message." 

"O'course, sir. Are you sure you're alright?" "Yes yes." Tîrpethron smiled, making a shooing gesture with his hand.

Limion disappeared through the flap of the tent. 

Tîrpethron yawned at looked around him.

He'd been placed in a tent with his crew and several Falathrim fishermen, and although his cot hadn't been the most comfortable of beds, he'd slept like he had never before. They had travelled hard for a month to get to Balar through orc-infested Beleriand, with only snatches of reverie. Not enough. Apparently, his body had decided he needed more rest than mind-wandering, and let him sleep like Men and elflings did, with closed eyes and dreamless. He gave a small snort. No wonder poor Limion was worried out of his mind at seeing him sleep with closed eyes.

 Half an hour later, he found Círdan already waiting at the docks, next to a sleek ship which smelled newly-tarred.

"Good morning to you, Tîrpethron. I hope your rest has been good?"

"Very good, milord, thank you. And a good morning to you too."

Círdan smiled and turned to the ship. "This is she who will sail you West. She is the fastest ship we have built as of yet." 

After a short silence, Tîrpethron realised he'd been staring at the ship, and quickly said:"She is beautiful, milord. What is her name?"

"None, as of yet. You may name her as you wish."

"Really?" said a stunned Tîrpethron. Círdan nodded. "Yes, she is yours to name."

Tîrpethron took a deep breath. " Then Anorglîn, sun-gleam, I will name her." he said. "For we sailed East under the gleam of the Stars, and West we will return under the gleam of the Sun."

He turned to Círdan. "I am Falmarin, as is my family. Fëanor and his sons forced us to sail our own ships East, only to burn them in Losgar. We allied ourselves to Turgon in Nevrast, whence we had fled after the burning of the ships."

Círdan nodded grimly. He'd already noticed the Tree-light in Tîrpethron's eyes, but knew better than to ask about it.

 

The following week was spent in preparation of the voyage. When on the seventh day of Lothron the ship at last laid ready to sail out, Círdan said his farewells to the Tîrpethron and his four crew-members, and bade them a safe journey. "And may you find your way."

"We are Falmari." said the brunette elf who Tîrpethron had named his law-son with a gleam in his eyes. "We know the way."

But never did they return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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