-Ilarion-
Círdan.
The name pronounced by the Sindar awoke an echo in my memory. I could almost hear the voice of my grandfather, Finwë: wise with years, yet burdened with a weight no king could avoid.
"When we were all simply Quendi, those who speak with voices," he used to say, "I had many friends who, upon departing, decided to remain in those lands. Among the most beloved were Círdan... and Elwë."
A pang of longing threatened to break my composure. The childish desire to return to those warm moments surfaced without permission.
I clenched my jaw and buried the memory. It was no time for sentimentality.
My boots crunched against the stone as I advanced.
"Uncle."
Fingolfin turned sharply. The frown that marked his face softened upon recognizing me; the tension in his shoulders yielded for just an instant before his gaze, ever alert, examined the figures coming with me.
I stepped aside, letting the salty wind whip my cloak.
Behind me stood exposed the warriors who accompanied me: Elves in light armor with bows finely crafted from oak wood.
"The Elves of these lands," I announced.
Círdan's Elves, who flanked Fingolfin, turned toward us. They wore no heavy steel, but leather tanned by salt and cloaks grey as the mist. Another group of the Teleri, without a doubt.
One of them, his face weathered and bronzed by the sea winds, fixed his gaze upon me, let out a ragged breath, and took a blind step forward.
A metallic rasp abruptly cut the air.
Fingon and Turgon had drawn half a span of their swords. The lethal instinct of the Noldor did not forgive sudden movements, much less from strangers.
Fingolfin did not even look at his sons. He only raised a gloved hand. The steel returned to its sheaths with a dry click, but the tension was beginning to mount.
Círdan's Elf seemed not to register the threat of death he had just dodged. His eyes remained fixed on my face, searching for a ghost.
"Finwë," he murmured, his voice rough as sand. "That hair... that same falcon's gaze evaluating its prey. You are his very image."
Silence was my only defense. The words caught in my throat, choked by the weight of that mention. No one, save for my father, bore Finwë's likeness carved into their face with such precision as I. To be exposed in this way before strangers shook me.
Did this Elf know my grandfather?
Something inside me wanted to blink, to waver. But I composed myself; one of the teachings Morgoth had imparted to me was to always appear confident when speaking with strangers, otherwise some opportunist would exploit naivety as weakness.
I kept my chin high, letting the frigid mask of the Noldor fall over my features.
The elder of the Falas let out a hoarse laugh, a sound that tore through the tension in the air like splintered wood.
"Even the very same stiffness to hide your bewilderment," he said, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. Then, his gaze shifted from me, sweeping over the escort that accompanied me. "Elves of King Thingol. I assume the tides have brought you to these shores with the same purpose as us."
The mention of the Sindar King broke the familiar illusion.
Fingolfin took a single step forward. The echo of his boot against the stone seemed to silence the roar of the sea. There were no polite smiles nor empty courtesies. A Noldor Prince took his place.
"I am Fingolfin," his voice resonated, grave and flawless, carrying the authority of one of his noble birth. "Prince of the Noldor. Son of Finwë."
Fingolfin did not avert his gaze from the Sindar Elves, but the imperceptible tilt of his head was a silent and direct order to me: Evaluate those present.
I nodded softly.
Beneath my traveling cloak, I let my hand fall upon the hilt of Silmacil. The metal, forged in the very fires of the Vala Aulë, seemed to awaken against my palm with a latent vibration. I did not seek to draw its blade, but to feel.
If any of those present harbored treachery, or if the slightest stain of Morgoth's venom infected their hearts, the blade beneath the sheath would bleed a dark sapphire light.
I maintained my composure; it had not been necessary to be on guard against the Sindar, for during our encounter the sword had remained still, but I could not say the same for Círdan's Elves. Another of Morgoth's teachings was never to trust the kind words of others.
The Elf might have known my grandfather, but did that guarantee he was trustworthy? No.
The steel remained mute, emitting no glow. I exchanged a quick glance with my uncle and gave him a curt nod. They were clean.
The exchange with my uncle was invisible to the Sindar. They were too busy trying to hold Fingolfin's gaze.
The change in my uncle's countenance was suffocating, an unnatural gravity that forced the woodland Elves to correct their posture. No one breathed heavier than necessary.
The Sindar leader took a step forward. With the fluid elegance of those born beneath the stars of Beleriand, he brought a fist to his chest in a sign of respect.
"I am Calenmir of Doriath," he announced, his voice clear over the sound of the surf. "Subject of King Elu Thingol, Lord of the Guarded Realm."
Calenmir straightened. His eyes swept over our camp, our dented armor, and finally came to rest on my uncle.
"My Lord Thingol decreed that, should those arriving on the shores be dark of hair, our gates must be opened immediately."
Calenmir smiled, completely ignorant of the massacre at Alqualondë and the motivation that led the Noldor to abandon Valinor.
"In the name of my King, I offer you the refuge of Doriath, Prince Fingolfin... and extend the warmest of welcomes. Is King Finwë among you? My Lord holds him in high esteem and wishes to reunite with his old friend."
The wind seemed to die in that instant.
The silence that fell upon our camp was not one of respect; it was a suffocating silence, as freezing as the Helcaraxë. At my back, I felt dozens of Noldor halt, the cracking of their knuckles as they clenched their fists dulling the sound of the waves.
The silence stretched, fragile as glass about to break.
Fingolfin did not shout. He did not draw his sword. He simply fixed his eyes upon the Sindar Elf. And in that gaze, cold and ancient, Calenmir seemed to understand all at once that the world he knew had ended.
"My father is dead," my uncle's voice was a harsh whisper. "Slain by the very shadow that rises in these lands."
Calenmir's smile disintegrated. He drew a sharp breath, but before he could stammer an apology, Fingolfin had already turned his back on him.
"We shall accept your King's refuge," my uncle declared, returning to his formal tone. "Fingon. Turgon. Break camp."
Fingolfin stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly toward the elder Elf of Círdan, remembering the reason he had separated from Fëanor.
"Our wounded will not survive a long journey," he stated, dropping a hint to Círdan's Elves.
The Sea-elf nodded with a smile on his face; from the beginning, they had planned to invite them to their home.
"Our haven is open, Lord Fingolfin. We will care for and tend to your wounded."
Fingolfin's attention shifted from the strangers and fell upon us.
"You and Galadriel shall march to the havens with Aredhel, Turgon, and Finrod," he ordered, his voice cutting through the salty wind. "Shield our wounded. We must have no further casualties."
The Noldor Prince closed the distance. He leaned in, and when he spoke, it was a harsh whisper that only I could hear.
"Win their ships and their swords. We need them all if we are to tear the Enemy to pieces and avenge the blood of Finwë. Use whatever you must."
I nodded, forcing my features to remain steady; this Fingolfin terrified me even more than my father when angered.
"I will not fail, Uncle."