Havens by AdmirableMonster

Sea-longing

The Moon is setting into the ocean, making a pretty picture, especially framed by the window of Dírhaval’s little cottage.  The soft crackling of the little fire behind Pengolodh completes it.  He has been spending a great deal of time here.  He has never really known any of the Secondborn before—there were none in Gondolin, of course, and he has no recollection of knowing any when he was a child in Nevrast.  Besides, his memories of Nevrast are distant and dream-like; he hardly feels as if his life began before Gondolin, and now Gondolin itself is nothing but memory.

These Secondborn—Dírhaval, Egilona, and their mother Hildoara—are cheerful and playful.  Stockier and hairier than Elves, they are nevertheless beautiful in their own way, overflowing with joyful strength.  At times, they break out into song—and Pengolodh had half-forgotten that that is a way one can live.

Dírhaval taps on his shoulder and when he looks over, holds out the tail end of some multicolored yarn he has been spinning, with a questioning air.  They have already repeated this performance several times—all three Mannish occupants of the cottage seem to do a great deal of spinning this rough, warm yarn, and they often need a spare pair of hands to help them with it.  It’s an easy task, and it forces Pengolodh to silence in a way that actually calms his nerves and focuses his mind.

He puts out his hands and lets Dírhaval wind the yarn around it, then turns his face back to Moonset.  This is one thing he lost when he traveled to Gondolin—the sea.  Pengolodh grew up on these shores—though much farther North, of course—and despite Tuor’s tales of Ulmo, he has not felt the god’s presence in many long years.

He feels it now—the weight of a kind, yet wild and distant, regard.  He remembers, this time with perfect clarity, the way the thin ice used to crackle beneath his feet as raced along the shore ahead of Salgant, perfectly free and perfectly secure in the knowledge that his nurse would never allow harm to come to him.

When he turns his face away from the window, his face is wet with salt water, and with his hands tangled in the warm yarn, he cannot hide the tears.  He sees it the moment Dírhaval realizes, the way the Man’s face changes.  But he does not speak, with words or gestures.  He reaches into the yarn and tangles their fingers together, soft and warm.

Pengolodh cries as he has not cried since he was a child, and if it is someone else who holds him close and comforts him—well, still there is someone there again.