Echoes By The Water by Grundy

Echoes By The Water

Read Echoes By The Water

Círdan is too old to show that he is startled, but he had not expected that Elrond’s middle daughter could keep so still. He’s only met her once before she’d come riding in the Havens. But from what he’d seen that once, and all that he’d heard of her, he had believed her more like Elros, who was always in motion in some form.

Clearly that was incorrect, for she’d been so still on multiple levels that he’d not noticed her until he sat down in in the other chair. That was quite the change from quayside.

“I’m surprised you’re still here, but as you are, I trust you’ll stay for supper?”

That got no visible response for a split second, before she nodded.

“Yes, it’s only fair you feed me seeing as you aided and abetted Arwen.”

He chose not to take the bait.

“I’m sure your grandmother will be pleased to hear from you.”

“Which one? I’m told I have quite a few.”

That was asked in apparent innocence, with such a neutral expression he has no idea whatsoever where she might be going. As it happened, Círdan has met quite a few of her foremothers, and the one she’s putting him in mind of most is Melian.

“Elwing,” he replied drily.

Elwing, who adored her boys more than anything, and who will doubtless be thrilled to get a letter addressed specifically to her, and from the girl who doesn’t write as a rule.

“You knew her…”

It was neither question nor statement.

“Of course,” he replied. “And hope to renew the acquaintance in due course. You can’t have imagined I wouldn’t have known the Queen?”

She blinked, and it’s almost like watching a thaw, the unexpected echo of Melian giving way to Elros in a transition so seamless he wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen it for himself. (And all of it the more uncanny given who she most resembles physically.)

“How come all the history books call Eärendil the lord of Sirion if she was queen?”

“Because the Noldor wrote the histories, little star,” he chuckled. “If you want the Lindarin version, you need to ask your grandfather – the one in Lothlorien – to sing it for you.”

“He’s not here,” she pointed out, with an impish grin he’s seen on both her uncle and her grandfather. She’s even started to swing her feet…

“And I am?” Círdan finished wryly. “True enough. Though I doubt you want the song so much as the person, eh?”

She grinned.

“Elwing, much like you, knew her own mind and had her own way of looking at things. Took some getting used to for most! But unlike you, she grew up knowing that she was ultimately the one in charge, and if she really insisted on something, there were none who could tell her no. Fortunately, she had uncommon good sense even as a child, so she didn’t end up as spoiled as one might have feared. And she decided quite early on that the grandfather whose face you’re wearing was hers.”

That got a startled look, giving Círdan pause.

“Surely you’ve been told you’re like enough to Eärendil to be taken for his twin?”

“No,” she replied slowly. “Normally everyone says Grandmother. Except Curunir, but we thought he was just being…himself.”

That was an interesting comment. Anariel was distinctly unenthusiastic about Curunir.

Círdan had never been quite able to put his finger on why it was his heart had led him to give Narya to Mithrandir rather than the nominal leader of the Istari. He quietly filed that shared mistrust away, to speak of with Elrond and Galadriel whenever he next had the opportunity.

Galadriel had never explained why she wanted Mithrandir to head the White Council rather than Curunir. If she too had a misgiving she could not articulate… He had once heard Anariel mention a California saying about three strikes, and he suspected this was three.

As to ‘Grandmother’, it was plainly Galadriel she meant. He supposed that made sense if all one looked at was the hair, particularly given her older brothers and sisters all had the dark hair that had passed down from Melian herself.

Then again, there weren’t all that many left in Middle-earth who could recall what Eärendil looked like – and Círdan could see reason enough why most of them might be satisfied to have Anariel thought of as Galadriel’s. It wasn’t entirely without danger, but it was probably less dangerous than having all Middle-earth looking at the girl as the Star of High Hope come again.

Now that he thought on it, that might explain a good deal about what happened in the Redhorn Pass.

He could only imagine what Elwing would have to say to the entire state of affairs.

“Well, you’ll be able to compare for yourself in due time,” he replied. “But I’m sure neither of your father’s parents are in any doubt.”

“I would love to hear stories,” Anariel prompted.

He had to hold back a laugh at the pleading eyes – given her child-like size, she must wreak havoc in Imladris with that expression. Provided whatever they had their heart set on wasn’t dangerous, Elrond wasn’t much inclined to tell any of his children ‘no’ in the first place. He suspected everyone else was probably nearly as indulgent with the girl who had disappeared.

“Why not?” he chuckled. “Supper won’t be ready for another hour or so.”

He suspected she’d enjoy the tale of Eärendil’s first voyage. And it couldn’t hurt to have her thinking of her grandparents as people rather than legends or even a bird and a star.

And he knew Elwing would appreciate it.