An lao ite i mbolg na bó by cuarthol

An lao ite i mbolg na bó

"Lord Círdan, shipwright, mighty pillar of the Sindar, cleaver of the waves.”  The greeting was overly formal for the circumstances but Lalwen’s pride would not let her act otherwise, standing as she was at the head of a ragged and weary host.  She leaned more heavily upon her crutch than she wished but the journey down the coast had been long and her strength waned.

Círdan looked over those at the fore, carrying what few things their flight allowed.  What fineries they once wore now soiled and torn; a meagre remnant of a once mighty people.  His pity could not wholly be hidden, but it was not for them alone, but grief also for all those who would now never come down from the north.  Though the Falas had been lost, his own desperate flight from ruin had brought him south by ship far faster than by foot, and better supplied.

He had not ceased to sail those waters, seeking any sign of the Enemy’s advance south, and so he had spied their number as they passed the cape.  His ship was moored along the eastern shore, and only he and a few of his crew had come to greet them, facing one another upon the wind-worn outcrop.

“Lady Lalwen,” he returned, giving a deep bow.  “Would that our acquaintance had been renewed under brighter stars.  But I am glad to see you now.”

Her face betrayed nothing of her own grief, proud daughter of Finwë, she who followed her brothers across the Grinding Ice.  “Such days were too long ago,” she agreed, recalling how hopeful her brother had been at the Mereth Aderthad.  “But I, too, am glad it is a friendly face who greets us now.”

“News of the fall of your nephew has preceded you,” Círdan said.  “We mourn him, for there was friendship between our folk, and your kin among us.”

“Then more news have you than I,” she replied.  “But its lack was message enough.  The king has not returned from the battle, nor any who marched forth with him, only strange Men under a black banner.”  She felt the tightness in her throat at the memory of it.

“This news I had not,” Círdan said.  “What of Dor-lómin?”

“It is not my concern, lord.”  Her words were cold, but not cruel.  No great warriors or ranks of soldiers remained among those she now led but those most unsuited to fighting, a remnant of artisans and scholars, and what few children had been born to hopeful parents.  She could not have held back the tide even had she wanted.  “We seek refuge in these lands, by your grace.”

“Though we dwell mainly upon the isle, Ulmo’s power still flows in Sirion,” he said.  “We have a foothold there at the mouth.  It is sheltered and the area around, bountiful.  You would be welcome there, and it may prove a fair haven for your plight.”

“We can offer little in return-” she began, stopping when he held his hand for peace.

“Our aid is a gift, not a barter,” he said, kind but firm.  “We must stand together in these dark days.”

There was a barb - intended or no - in those words.  Darker days had once left them sundered in more ways than one.  But she would take what grace was offered, having scarcely allowed herself to hope.  One cannot eat the calf in the cow’s belly, nor reap fresh-tilled fields in Spring.  But to not sow the field at all was folly, not caution.

“You have our earnest gratitude, then.”

“Rest here a while, for this land is still fair and some force yet stands between us and our Enemy.”

“Rest has long been beyond our reach, and sorely needed.  Thank you, lord.”

Before he turned, Círdan added, “I said some of your folk dwell with us, and one of close kin to yourself.  I will send him, for he will surely wish to see you.”

Lalwen could not guess who he meant.  She could not recall any so close as to be named such who dwelt so far distant.  So when the unfamiliar youth, barely halfway to his age, bowed before her, she looked upon him with wariness.

He had the marked look of the Sindar about him, silvery hair and unlit eyes, and dressed in the fashion of the Falas.  But her reservations did not last when Círdan named him Ereinion Orodrethion.  Then it was little Arafinwë she saw in the set of his jaw and the softness of his gaze.

“It is my great honour to meet you, Aunt,” he said, and following the Noldorin custom, pressed an obedient kiss to her hand rather than her cheeks.  It reassured her there was something of his father in him, not only his mother’s kin.

“So a seed yet remains,” she breathed, a bittersweet war raging inside.  Whether that seed would grow or wither, she would not guess, but the tended field holds the more hope.  Even if she could only water it with tears.

“Come, child,” she said, sitting down and laying her crutch aside.  Though in truth he was more than a mere child, in her eyes he was barely out of his mother’s milk.  But he offered neither protest nor sign of affront, situating himself across from her with an earnest, reverent awe.  “Share with me news of your father’s house.”

Chapter End Notes

There are a few little details in canon that converged in my brain to produce this fic.  

'This remnant sailed with Círdan south to the Isle of Balar, and they made a refuge for all that could come thither; for they kept a foothold also at the Mouths of Sirion,...'  

'...but to Hithlum came back never one of Fingon's host, nor any of the Men of Hador's house, nor any tidings of the battle and the fate of their lords." and "The realm of Fingon was no more;'

But this makes me ask what of those in Hithlum who did not or could not bear arms?  Surely not every last person marched to war, some must have remained behind, even as the Edain had, and what became of them?  So I have imagined that the last remnant of the Noldor in Hithlum were among the first refugees who sought refuge with Círdan and settled the Havens proper under the leadership of Lalwen.

But also I hold to Gil-galad son of Orodreth but mush it together with his father sending him to the Falas after the Dagor Bragollach so yay for braiding canon threads!