-General-
"Land sighted, my lord!" announced a young Noldor from the crow's nest, his clear voice piercing the salty wind like a well-shot arrow.
His eyes, the proud inheritance of a lineage that saw beyond distances and shadows, distinguished details that were nothing more than a blur on the horizon for others. With hasty steps, he descended the ropes, moving with the light grace of an elite archer, dodging the crew members who ran back and forth upon hearing the warning.
Fingolfin, his gaze fixed on the dawn breaking over the sea, nodded solemnly.
"Give the signal to the others."
With a half-turn, his blue cloak billowed with the salty breeze; a simple gesture, yet laden with authority. His attention then focused on the vessels following his own, like a small white army advancing over a still-unknown ocean.
He exhaled a sigh of relief.
The Teleri ships, however beautiful and light, had not been conceived for such long voyages. It was almost a miracle that they had endured such enormous distances without breaking apart or veering toward the abyss.
Even so, despite not being expert sailors, they had managed to advance without major setbacks. Neither treacherous storms nor monsters born of rumor and superstition.
The dark, viscous creatures that were said to inhabit the sea of Ulmo had not made an appearance. Fingolfin did not know if it was fortune, divine protection, or simple chance, but he was wholeheartedly grateful.
Near Fingolfin's ship, another vessel advanced steadily over the waters. Traveling on it were Ilarion, Galadriel, Amrod, and Amras, each focused on the tasks corresponding to them while commanding the ship with Noldorin discipline.
At the front, standing on the prow, the most beautiful of the Noldor admired the ascending sun from the east. The salty wind caressed his face with unexpected softness, as if the ocean itself silently welcomed him. The pure aroma of the sea relaxed the muscles of his shoulders, tense from days of voyaging. His long hair, black as the deepest night, flowed down his back and fell to the sides, reflecting in the crystalline waters.
On the sea's surface, small motes of light twinkled, caught in the ebb and flow of the waves. They looked like tiny newborn stars, shy, barely daring to show their brilliance before the serene-faced lord who occasionally looked at them.
"Middle-earth, huh...?" he murmured.
The mere idea of finally setting foot on that continent he had so often dreamed of plunged him into a mix of excitement and anticipation. He felt a strange familiarity in his chest—finally, he would not be in the dark!
What Ilarion ignored—and what would make his arrival even more significant—was that a part of that vast land would be snatched away by Eru's fury after the insolence of the Númenóreans. Great kingdoms would sink, leaving no trace but ruins shrouded by the currents of Ulmo.
And unknowingly, for the first time, he would set foot in Beleriand: a land destined, if the course of history held, to disappear beneath the same ocean that now rocked him.
...
Several hours passed before the vessels led by Fingolfin reached the sandy beaches. Before them, majestic cliffs rose like ancient guardians, silent custodians of unknown lands. The scene possessed a wild beauty and an unfathomable mystery: an untouched place, alien to any Elvish step... and yet, somewhat familiar.
Although they ignored what dangers or wonders awaited them there, the growing enthusiasm among the Noldor did not diminish in the slightest.
"Scout a route that will allow us to ascend the cliffs," Fingolfin commanded in a firm voice.
Four Noldor stepped forward, ready to venture into the area, when a soft voice—yet full of purpose—stopped them in their tracks.
"I will go with you."
Ilarion advanced with confident steps toward the small group. His presence, as luminous as his lineage, was enough to make the four scouts tense up and, almost automatically, avert their gaze toward Fingolfin.
Not because they doubted Ilarion.
Not because they dismissed his capabilities.
Instead, it was because the son of Fëanor, beyond his beauty and renown, was someone for whom they felt deep affection... and a responsibility they could not ignore.
They followed Fingolfin, their chosen king, their guide on that uncertain journey.
And allowing Ilarion to be exposed to an unknown danger—whether a wild beast, a treacherous fall, or some hidden enemy—would be something they could never forgive themselves for.
The tension hung suspended in the air, like a taut rope about to snap.
Everyone silently awaited what Fingolfin would say.
"You may go, but you must be careful. We are unaware of the dangers that may be in this land... or if any ancient servant of Morgoth still wanders here," Fingolfin warned.
Ilarion nodded solemnly. He might be one of the best in the art of the sword and martial discipline, but he still remembered what Manwë had once told him:
"You must remain alert always, even if you were to become the most powerful being in Arda. Look at Melkor: once the strongest of us, and yet now chained, serving those he once wanted to rule."
"Be careful," Galadriel's soft and melodious voice tore him from that memory.
The sea breeze played with her golden hair, making it shimmer as if each strand held a flash of Laurelin.
And though she was his cousin, Ilarion couldn't help but think—as he had so many times before—that, were it not for that bond of blood, he would have done the impossible to win over such beauty.
With a slight nod, he turned his gaze toward his brothers.
"Watch over them for me, please," he asked with a barely perceptible sigh. "And keep them from doing anything idiotic."
Galadriel smiled with that mix of tenderness, nodding at the request; she was a formidable warrior, so it would not be difficult to watch over her most bothersome cousins, in her opinion.
With those last words, Ilarion set off with the other four Elves, ready to venture into the unknown land that stretched beyond the cliffs.
...
-?-
"Wasn't it too hasty to send our daughter to refuge?"
The woman's magnetic voice resonated in the throne room, where the King waited with a frown while reviewing the reports sent from the coasts of Barad Nimras.
Upon looking up, the Elven King softened his expression. He rose from his throne and set aside the dimitiba—the document that warned about the unknown Elves who had disembarked on the distant shores just a few days ago.
"I must be prepared, my love."
The King spoke while caressing the pale skin of his wife—his Queen—a beauty without equal, as ethereal as the new silver light that now bathed the nights.
"Melian, my beloved... our daughter shines more beautifully than the Valar I once beheld. What if those Elves glimpse her beauty and try to kidnap her? There was already one such case among our own, and I will not risk our daughter's safety."
Moved by her husband's concern, the Queen leaned on his chest.
"Oh, my love... my beloved Thingol," she whispered. "Your worry reminds me why I fell in love with you. But now I must disagree. Something tells me that the arrival of those Elves is linked to the malice that, a few weeks ago, rose like a dark mist over Beleriand. Perhaps they are pursuing it?"
With her eyes closed, Melian allowed herself an instant of silent contemplation.
"Does the letter mention any characteristic of these new Elves?"
Melian opened her eyes, attentive, her presence radiating a serenity that made the walls of the hall vibrate.
Thingol nodded as he circled his beloved wife with one arm.
"Yes. It mentions that their hair is as dark as a raven's feathers."
For an instant, the King fell silent. The light of the torches danced in his pupils as he searched through ancient memories. And then, as if lightning struck the fog of the years, his eyes opened with sudden clarity: a memory was returning to him, a friendship forged before the moon and sun illuminated the heavens.
He remembered that proud and noble Elf who once accompanied him, that one who departed for Valinor along with so many others, following the call of the Valar.
"I think I know who they are," he murmured almost to himself, though Melian heard him.
"Who?" she asked softly.
Thingol inhaled deeply, as if pronouncing a name that weighed with centuries.
"They may be the people of my old friend... Finwë."
**
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