In After Days by StarSpray

In After Days

But in after days it was sung that Tuor alone of mortal Men was numbered among the elder race, and was joined with the Noldor, whom he loved; and his fate is sundered from the fate of Men. - “Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin”

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Summer on the shores of Eldamar was glorious. The sun shone golden on the turquoise waters of the bay, and dolphins swam in from the wider waters of Belegaer to frolic among the boats that darted about in mimicry of the schools of colorful fish that greeted anyone who dove in. Mornings dawned bright and clear as Arien rose from the eastern waves, and evenings came suddenly when she plunged westward behind the Pelóri, save for the syrupy thick light that flowed out of the Calacirya to illuminate Tol Eressëa, so that it shone like an emerald in the purple twilight.

It was not often that Eärendil got to see such sights—from the ground, at least. But now he was new-come from his latest sky voyage, and was staying as a guest with Elwing in the house of Finrod Felagund on Tol Eressëa. It looked out over Eldamar toward the opening to Belegaer; a short path led through lush greenery and bright-colored flowers down to the white sands, and when Eärendil leaned out of the window he was greeted by birdsong and the whisper of the waves, and the mingling scent of the sea and all of the flowers. He glanced down to find a cat stretched out just beneath the window, tail flicking lazily as it blinked up at him slowly.

Behind him Elwing moved about the room; she had dismissed the servants, and was finishing her morning routine by herself. Eärendil was already dressed; he was still unused to the brightly dyed silks and cottons that were all the fashion in summertime Alqualondë, and which those dwelling upon Eressëa had eagerly adopted. There had been little opportunity or time for such luxuries as clothing dye at the Havens of Sirion, and even less during the War of Wrath. But seeing everyone walking about in clothes that gave them the appearance of butterflies with bright wings, Eärendil remembered Gondolin, where there had been peace and luxury, until it had all gone so very wrong.

He had thought that grief was dulled with time, tucked away safely in some quiet corner of his heart, but seeing the ruins from Vingilot’s deck the first time he had passed over Middle-earth had been like opening an old scabbed wound, and the fact that Gondolin, along with all the rest of the lands he had known in his childhood and youth, were drowned beneath the waves of Belegaer was no comfort. Eärendil still dreamed sometimes of the waves rushing in to cover the crumbled stones of his grandfather’s tower that had become his tomb, and woke up weeping.

Elwing appeared at his side, leaning on the sill and pressing her arm against his. Her dress was of cotton so light it seemed to float about her, and was embroidered with pale silver and grey feathers along the sleeves. She had pearls woven through her dark braids. “What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Eärendil said. He turned to smile at her, but something out near the entrance to the bay caught his eye. It was a small, dark shape on the water, slowly growing larger. As it passed into Eldamar out of Belegaer, Eärendil felt his breath catch. “Elwing,” he said.

“I see it.” She leaned farther out of the window, as though those few inches might grant her a better look. She had one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. “It looks like—”

“Yes, but it can’t be.”

“I think it is. And it’s coming to Avallónë!” Elwing hiked up her skirts and clambered onto the window sill. When she jumped the cat fled with a shocked and disgruntled sound, but Elwing’s feet never hit the ground. Instead she soared up and away on her great white wings, leaving Eärendil rooted to the spot, watching both her and the ship.

The ship had an achingly familiar shape, very similar but not quite identical to Vingilot’s. It was both like and unlike the ships that had come West in a flood and then a trickle after the War of Wrath; those were larger, built to hold more than a few mariners. And as it drew closer there could be no mistaking it—it was Eärrámë. Eärendil felt almost dizzy. He scrambled out of the window himself and ran down the path to the beach, turning to make his way along the water toward the harbor, where the ship was headed. The wet sand was hard beneath his feet and the water was cool where it washed up over his ankles.

As he reached the harbor and made his way along the docks, Eärendil found a crowd gathering. Many in Avallónë had once dwelled on Balar or at the Havens of Sirion, and recognized the ship that Tuor and Idril had sailed away in, never to be seen again. The crowd parted to let him through, and many hands reached out to touch his arm or his shoulder; there were many murmurs and whispers, but a hush seemed to have fallen over the island. No one knew what they would find when the ship came into port. It had been years. Perhaps all they would find was bones, propped against the helm or the mast. Eärendil did not know what he would do if that were the case. From the highest mast fluttered the banner of the House of the Wing.

From the clear blue waters of the bay rose Uinen, arms outstretched in welcome. She called out something to the ship that Eärendil could not quite catch, but for the name Ulmondil. She sank back into the waves, and Elwing swooped over the harbor, joined now by dozens of other seabirds, all calling to one another and to the ship as they circled it. An eagle soared out over the mountains to circle Eärrámë once, twice, three times before letting out a piercing cry and winging back away west through the Calacirya.

“Ulmondil!” went the shocked murmur through the crowd behind Eärendil.

Elwing alighted on the dock as the birds escorted Eärrámë to the harbor. Eärendil stepped forward to join her, and caught the first rope that Voronwë tossed down. Voronwë tossed out two more before he realized who was there, and stopped to lean over the railing. “Eärendil!” he cried. “Is that you? And Elwing?”

“Is that you, Voronwë?” Eärendil called back.

Then Idril appeared, and beside her Tuor, to the astonished joy of everyone there to see him. He looked no older than the day Eärrámë had set sail from the Havens, only a little thinner, with wide eyes and a sunburned face, and only a few threads of white in his pale yellow hair. “Adar,” Eärendil gasped out, suddenly unable to breathe. Beside him Elwing grasped his hand, laughing out loud for sheer joy.

“Eärendil!” Tuor ignored the gangplank and leaped over the side, not even stumbling as he hit the dock and ran to embrace both Eärendil and Elwing. His hands were rough but his arms as strong as ever. Eärendil found himself with his face pressed into his father’s shoulder, as he’d done in childhood, all of them laughing and crying at once.

There were dozens of questions that needed answering—all of the hows and whys and wherefores—but there would be time to ask them later, and listen to the answers. For now they shrank in importance behind the fact that Tuor and Idril were there, and Voronwë too, all alive and laughing on the docks of Avallónë in the sunshine, beyond all hope.