Chapter Text
The air was sweet with salt and the crying of birds that wheeled around and around the waves crashing ever on the shores of Mithlond. A few, solitary boats swayed gently against the docks, grown sleepy and quiet, slowly being overtaken by creeping vines and algae and mosses that promised to accept the grey place once their final lord was departed. Which, thought Círdan the Shipwright, would finally be not far in the future.
It had been years, several score at least in the reckoning of men, since he had last sent on the final travelers seeking his Havens from the shrinking enclaves of the Eldar in Middle Earth. It was perhaps half that number since he had sent the last of his own people and attendants forth. They'd begged their lord to join them, but Círdan had merely smiled and shook his head. It was not his lot and not his time; that much, at least, he knew.
'You are late in coming,' Círdan spoke towards the waves. The grey-cloaked, approaching figure cracked a wry smile behind Círdan's back.
'Not too late, I hope?'
'I have been waiting for you.'
The grey figure settled beside Círdan, sitting cross-legged upon the dock, where Círdan had his legs dangling over the edge. It might have been strange, once, for both elf lords to do so, but here almost at the end of time for them and no other eyes to see, neither had it in them to care much. Celeborn removed his hood, revealing a head of silver hair and turned his grey eyes out over the water.
'I expected to be greeted before I reached the very end of the dock,' said Celeborn, a note of diplomatic teasing in the tone.
'No you didn't, unless you have become a fool in these long years of Arda.'
Celeborn laughed, a sound which came quicker to him now than it had before. 'Long years, yes. Foolish? I dearly hope not, though I suppose one is an ill judge of one's own foolishness.' Celeborn shifted beside Círdan, a note of hesitation come into him. He had grown easier to read, thought Círdan, less guarded in the intervening years. Lighter, he thought privately, without a Lordship nor aught else fettering his wandering. 'Did they come?' Celeborn said at length.
Círdan, though perturbed at the imprecision of the question, did not truly need more context. 'Yes,' he replied, similarly unspecific purely for his own enjoyment.
'Both of them?'
'You were uncertain?'
'Fairly certain,' Celeborn let out a long sigh. 'I sent them both off together, and both assured me of his choice, but they had said as much in words only yet, and had not truly chosen. I had hoped...' he paused only a moment. 'I had hoped that, if one did not so choose, he would return to me. But it was always possible he had wanted to wander off to a peaceful land, make his life, and live it out far away.'
'Together they came over the far hills, bright in mail even in this peacetime, upon bay horses as perfectly matched as they themselves. They lingered for a while upon the shores, learning the basics of seacraft, then together they boarded a ship with some of my sailors, and together they passed beyond the Havens to the Sea.'
Celeborn let out a long breath at Círdan's words, a tearful smile stretching his old face. 'Thank you.'
'Your grandsons should be well met with their mother and father many years since.'
'Thank you.'
'What would you have done, if I'd said Elrohir Peredhel had left his brother at Mithlond to go North and not returned?'
'Been surprised at the first,' replied Celeborn. 'If any were going to stay for love of Middle-Earth it was Elladan Elrondion. But if it was what his heart had chosen? I would have been happy, and grieved. But it is well. Elrond and Elros were of the same fiery heart always in different directions. Those two,' he waved his hand as if to indicate two raven-haired younger Peredhel side by side upon the prow of a ship. 'I do not think they were ever meant to be apart. Whether as men or as elves, they could not have left each other.'
'I told them as much when they tarried here longer than they should have.' Celeborn turned a startled look towards Círdan. 'Ah, do not fuss, their choice was their own. And both had already made it; it only took a while for them to realize it. It was Elrohir agonizing that he was forcing his brother to sail against the wishes of his heart, when Elladan had accepted and chosen the love of his family over his own for his wanderings long ago.'
'Then thrice-over, you have my thanks.'
Círdan simply gave a grunt as if to say 'it's my job'. Círdan looked sideways at Celeborn then, and the Sindar lord, his eyes already turned towards the West, had a look of pining come over his face. He smiled softly, leaning unconsciously forward towards the waves. Still, Círdan could see in him the bittersweet notes of regret lingering about his fëa.
'I am glad they are there,' said Celeborn wistfully. 'It is fortunate then, that I have found you at last, with a ship to spare for the Straight Road.'
Círdan hummed tonelessly, watching Celeborn. 'Yes. Someday.'
Celeborn blinked, finally turning his gaze from the West to stare at Círdan. 'Someday?'
Círdan simply nodded then heaved himself to his feet and walked back along the dock towards the house. He heard Celeborn scrambling a bit belatedly to follow after him. Celeborn was slightly perplexed to be leaving the shores behind. He had lingered long in the valley of Imladris, then wandered far about Eriador, trending generally towards the Havens but immersing himself, for a while, in the fading wildness of Ennor. It had been long coming, and he had rather thought his journey at its natural end upon arriving. His host, however, clearly had different plans.
Círdan welcomed him into the house, setting out tea when they both had settled. The house was white-washed wood, reminiscent of white Alqualondë with the same Telerin flourishes and fondness for shells and pearls. Círdan moved about the kitchen space with a comfortable ease, lighting a lamp to better see by the dimming sunset. It was clearly a large house with many rooms, but by now the majority were all shut. From what Celeborn could see, Círdan used only this room for cooking, and the one adjacent for sleep. He'd clearly given up maintaining the larger house for a few years at least, saying nothing of the many other buildings that once housed his people and their city.
'It is quiet,' Celeborn said into the stillness, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug the old elf poured him.
'Expected anything less?' Círdan raised an eyebrow. But he sat heavily, sipping at his own mug with a contented sigh. 'Where have you been lately where it is not quiet? But you are wrong, at the least. You mean to say there are no other people around. All the better to hear the voices of the wind, and the trees, and the water.'
Celeborn smiled at him. 'Your long years have made you sentimental, my Lord Círdan.'
Círdan grunted. 'Impatient. Having sent off the last of your folk who seem like to ever depart, I had looked forward to finally launching the Last Ship.'
Had? Celeborn watched him closely. 'That is what I came here hoping to find.'
Círdan gave another non-communicative grunt. 'You are too early.'
'Too early? You are not ready to sail, yet?' Celeborn's brow furrowed. 'I admit I had thought you'd be eager. Galadriel always said it was the greatest wish of your heart to see Aman. She was quite in awe of your obedience to serving our people with the Havens for as long as you have. Of course, if you are not ready yet, I will wait with you.'
'That Artanis never was one to follow orders easily, at least ones that were not in her own heart already.' Celeborn paused, as if unsure if the statement demanded he defend the honour of his wife or not. 'But she was always perceptive about people. You, not so much, Lord Celeborn.' Círdan took a sip of his tea and smiled kindly at the confused ellon. 'I am ready. I have been waiting to sail to Aman and look upon Elvenhome since the First Age of this world. Middle-Earth is beautiful, but it has never been where I want to linger. It is you who is not yet ready.'
Celeborn sputtered rather unprincelike, but Círdan would hear nothing of his protests. 'I do not send those forward who are not ready,' he said, and would say no more for the night despite Celeborn's continued entreaties. He retreated to his room at length, and Celeborn the same to an airy guest room adjacent to the kitchen.
Círdan must have opened it up and prepared the space for him earlier in the day, before Celeborn had come upon him at the docks. That man had the strong gift of foresight, even that to rival Galadriel. Alone, in the peace of the room and the light of Varda's stars filtering through open windows, Celeborn sat and tried to reflect. He was, in his life, counted among the wise, though he was glady overshadowed by his Lady wife. As such, he would try to accept wisdom from one whom he respected greatly. He cast his mind back over the past years and the wistful joy he had found walking the paths of Middle-Earth. Celeborn was born in Doriath; he had never seen the light of the trees, save for in the eyes of his beloved, and in the light reflected from her hair, and the stories of her childhood she had shared. Aman was her home. And he longed to meet her there. No. Celeborn opened his eyes and sighed deeply. He longed to meet her. But he had no particular attraction to the land itself. Not...yet. He was growing weary, it was true, but his Sindarin heart was at rest yet in Middle-Earth. Círdan you meddler. He sat for a little while, before accepting that he would find no new revelations in the sanded wood floors of the room. Lord Celeborn, one of the last remaining elves in Middle-Earth, cast himself upon the bed in Mithlond and gave himself over to elven dreams.
Círdan said nothing for the next two weeks.
Celeborn had learned the rhythm quickly, such that it was. Círdan rose early, made a quick round of maintenance to the small number of tasks still to be maintained, then sat upon the docks, or walked along the beach. They ate fish and other bounty from the sea, and occasionally Círdan made a loop through the nearby woods to check traps for other meat. He cooked and ate in the kitchen, then retired to bed or else sat upon the docks in elvish reverie, looking West. The old shipwright was content to have Celeborn join him, or not, as was his wont. Sometimes they spoke, for Círdan had much news, old that it was now, of the people who had passed through the Havens, and Celeborn had his own news of the wider world of men that had grown in abundance. Celeborn did not ask again of leaving, and Círdan did not offer.
It was a peaceful existence, Celeborn thought. He also rather thought that Círdan was the most patient being he had ever seen in all of Arda. The ellon had waited ages of the world to satisfy his heart and yet smiled kindly, talked honestly, and showed no trace whatsoever of bitterness in his soul. He was old, in ways elves rarely were, with his silver beard and years upon him which gave him only strength and dignity. He was also so in slightly ridiculous ways that had made Celeborn smile to discover. For instance, the ellon caught fish by simply waiting in the shallow pool long enough for a fish to swim into his net.
'Círdan,' Celeborn ventured one evening as they walked along the shore. They were quite far, by now, from the docks of the Haven itself, but it was a quiet beach and none else inhabited these parts but the seabirds. Círdan had them following the shoreline South, though he looked up from the waves to glance curiously at his companion. 'You really need not wait for me to be ready,' Celeborn said at last. 'Even if I may be happy lingering for a few months more, I am at the end of my time here. There will be no more journeys East for me, and my Lady wife calls me to her. Besides, my friend, the Sea calls to you as well, and I am loath to make you wait upon my whim.'
Círdan only chuckled softly at him. 'No sense, what did I say? I do not send those forward who are not ready; this is no exception for you, my Lord. And you needn't worry for me. I have waited longer than you have been alive, Lord Celeborn. A little time to tarry at the end causes me no harm.'
'Then I am ready,' Celeborn said. 'I want to go to Valinor and see my wife and my daughter, and gaze upon the light of the Valar as did my forefathers. We should depart. The Last Ship of Nōwē Ciryatan.'
'You are not,' said Círdan simply. 'Though, I am surprised that name has survived long history. Thank you; it has been a while since I have heard it. But do not worry, my friend,' Círdan clapped a genial hand on Celeborn's shoulder. 'It does me no ill to wait upon the beautiful shores such as wrought Ulmo and Yavanna. If it eases your mind, we are really waiting for three things. Your readiness is but one of them.'
Surprised, Celeborn inquired about this, but Círdan would say no more. They must have walked miles Southward before they finally turned and began to move back towards Mithlond. If Celeborn had not known better, especially after such speeches of Círdan's patience, he might have thought that the old elf looked a little disappointed when they finally turned back.
It turned out, in the end, that Celeborn did not need to wait long to solve at least one part of the dockmaster's riddle. In fact, he found himself ruefully chagrined that he had not marked it beforehand. Thranduil Oropherion never was one to fade from memory.
He arrived as a summer storm a fortnight after Círdan and Celeborn's long walk upon the beach. It had been long years since the dawning of the world of man during which the elves diminished. Celeborn himself had shed much of his royal bearing and raiment, preferring to dress and live and be simply as he walked the wilds with the small remnants of his kin. Círdan, for his part, seemed utterly unchanged by the passing time, appearing as kind and lordly as he had in the Second Age, only more lonely for his lack of companionship. But, looking upon Thranduil now, Celeborn was reminded that while he himself had left Doriath at its sacking for Eriador and come over the mountains seeking shelter and then a kingdom for he and his wife, Oropher and his house, and Amdir and theirs, had fled purposefully to leave behind the world of the Noldor and to rejoin their Silvan cousins in their ways. 'Rustic', he thought they'd called it then.
Thranduil arrived at dusk, riding upon a racing gelding. Horse and rider moved almost as one flesh, as the elf king spurred his spirited companion into such a joyous frenzy that it seemed his hooves barely touched the sand. Celeborn had felt his own magic fade over the years, especially once the power of the rings was broken, and doubly so when Galadriel separated across the sea. Thranduil, though he had always been lesser in power, had simply had his magic change.
He rode now with such a deep and fey magic that the woods beyond the beach rustled their leaves to announce his coming. He appeared as if like a spirit, leaping at last from his horse when he spotted Círdan and Celeborn sitting upon the docks. Celeborn was turned around, openly staring at him, but Círdan looked yet out towards the waves. Thranduil came down to them, dragging a long cloak made of leaf litter, his old crown replaced with a small wreath of berries upon his golden head. His garment otherwise was plain, marked only by the insignia of the green leaves and antlers of his house at his collar and upon the sleeves. He wore no mail nor weapons, that Celeborn could see at least, and he came barefoot down the dock to sit unceremoniously on Círdan's other side. That was, in and of itself, a marvel.
'Greetings, Cousin,' Celeborn said at length into the rather stunned silence.
Thranduil merely tipped his head back and laughed, long and loud, an unrestrained noise that Celeborn didn't think he'd ever heard before. When he spoke it was in Silvan, the language that was not his by birth, but which had belonged to his beloved wife and to his children, and to his people whom he loved well. 'You are surprised. Be not so, my Lord Celeborn! The world is old.' With that, Thranduil sprang up as if he could not remain seated still and dashed backwards along the dock perhaps to seek the woods or maybe to catch his horse.
Círdan, for his part, gazed off into the water with a sedate smile.
Celeborn gave a bewildered slow shake of his head. 'I admit in my wanderings, to have quite neglected Eryn Lasgalen in my thoughts. I left it not long after its birth, really, and all my people had been leaving for some time. Even when I left, I took with me any who wanted to Imladris to dwell. Those we left behind in the wood will never leave Middle-Earth.'
Círdan nodded sagely. 'There are many. More than you would wager, I'd guess. Though we are a diminished people, elves in Middle-Earth will live on, for a time. I would think that those you left behind found their king in that wild thing running along the beach.' Celeborn turned once again to watch Thranduil racing about with his horse. He had known Thranduil a long time. Had known him as a young king, thrust into power by the blood of his father and two-thirds of his people. Grown cold and distant and strong by the grasping weight of growing shadow. Sharp, and proud, and quick to anger but steadfastly loyal and deeply protective. He ran now, like an elfling, tumbling over his horse which pranced about him, not another care in the world upon him. Celeborn smiled.
As dusk faded into night, Thranduil turned his horse loose and joined the silver-haired Lords at the table. He seemed a length or two too large for the small room. The cloak, which Celeborn and Círdan could see better in the light, was fashioned of hundreds of leaves blending in an artful gradient of reds and browns which gave more breadth to an already broad-shouldered build, but it was the uncontainable energy radiating off of him that really made the space feel cramped. As he sat, Thranduil hummed, a deep song that harmonized with the wind whistling through the windows. He sang the song of the Earth, and Celeborn wondered how long he had sat alone in his woods to learn it.
'I received the last of your people, good king, nigh on half a century ago,' said Círdan. Thranduil's ice-blue eyes snapped to him then, and finally Celeborn saw something familiar about his old kinsman.
'That is good,' he said, though his words were still in Silvan, which Celeborn was not sure Círdan spoke.
'How fares the Greenwood, then?' Celeborn asked, in Sindarin, hoping to prompt the elvenking to respond in kind.
He didn't, not for a long while. Instead, Thranduil opened his mouth and sang a long, wordless song that conjured such a love for the green boughs and swift streams of his forest that Celeborn quite forgot his hanging question. He sat back and let the king's song wash over him. It was not of Lothlorien that he sang, and in Lothlorien was his heart truly, but Eryn Lasgalen had been beautiful, fiercely so, for its recent victory over darkness and the evils of Sauron. The wood was vast and had been remade green and vibrant by the efforts of their peoples. Finally, Thranduil's song wound down, the melodies slowing and becoming softer. Strong still, but lower, deeper, almost asleep. It spoke of the fading of the elves and the happy scattering of its people to whither they would go in a green wood. It looked at last, not forward but backward, suffused with an elvenking's memory of brightness and family and love under thick boughs, ripe with bittersweet nostalgia and a lingering grief as time marched ever forward. The last few notes echoed in the small space long after Thranduil had actually stopped singing.
'Thank you for that, my friend,' said Celeborn softly.
Thranduil turned familiar shrewd eyes to him, more fey and free than he had ever seen them before, but with the same exacting steel behind them. 'You forget. How? What have you been doing all these years?'
'What do you mean?' Celeborn frowned. Thranduil seemed powerfully close to rolling his eyes at him, though in this small way at least, he kept his decorum. Círdan seemed to be laughing at them both.
'Our kingdoms are finished,' said Thranduil frankly, and without bitterness. He used a word that meant completed, done, fulfilled, rather than gone. 'The crown, the crown, is put away. Arda is. Evil slumbers. The world ends. And begins anew. Be with joy!' Abruptly, he sprang up and grabbed at Celeborn's hand. Bewildered, the Sindar lord let himself be dragged from the house. Thranduil thrust him out onto the beach beneath the light of the moon and the stars. He whistled and in a few moments his happy horse came cantering up to them, dancing about the sands. Celeborn glanced behind them, but Círdan had not followed. Thranduil was leaping up onto his mount's back and wheeling around towards Celeborn. With a brilliant smile he held out a hand towards him, offering to pull him up.
'What are you doing?'
Thranduil only shook his head at him, humming a tune he'd picked up, and offering his hand a little more forcefully. His eyes narrowed a touch. What are you afraid of? Cursing himself, Celeborn grasped Thranduil's arm and was pulled atop the horse. He'd barely settled in his seat before the thing leapt forward with a joyful neigh and they were racing into the woods.
Thranduil sang as they ran, the song of the trees around them. Grinning despite himself, Celeborn added his own baritone to the song, finding that he heard the rhythm and melody quickly, now that Thranduil had started it. The horse galloped when it could, and walked when it grew weary, only to gather its strength to gallop again. Celeborn got the distinct impression that neither the horse nor Thranduil had any plan on where they were going; they were simply running. He grinned into the wind and found he did not need to mind.
When they were finished running, they dismounted and walked a while. When they were finished walking, they stopped and climbed into the limbs of the trees beside them, who welcomed the elven lords gladly.
Thranduil settled high in the embrace of the tree, and would have reminded anyone who knew him strongly of his son. Celeborn looked up at him from a lower branch and smiled. He had never been very close with Thranduil, though he counted him a kinsman and an ally. Still, he had something of a wrathful reputation so to see him so wild was amusing. Ever before in their correspondence or brief meetings, Thranduil had seemed weary and burdened. Even when they met under the trees after the fall of Sauron, Thranduil had weight upon him. Celeborn could name a few. Dol Guldur. Dagorlad. One son alone on the Pelennor. You could hardly see trace of it now.
Lost in his own thoughts, it was only belatedly that Celeborn realized Thranduil was no longer in the tree above him. He was worried for only a few moments, before catching his trail moving through the trees slightly North. Celeborn shed his heavy cloak and ran lightly across the branches, as he hadn't since he'd been young, to catch up. He found Thranduil settled precariously in the high branches of the tallest tree he could find. Celeborn joined him, two heads, one silver, one gold, peeking above the treeline.
'Look,' said Thranduil. They were facing West, looking across the ocean. Celeborn imagined that he could see through the Straight Road and spy the tip of Tol Eressëa poking above the horizon. He imagined he could hear the sounds of the music of Valinor, and a bright lamp lit upon the shore with his family's colors, waiting for him to rejoin them.
Thranduil raised one arm in greetings towards the West, a stream of names joining his song for the moment. Then, Thranduil pulled his shoulder, turning him around so they gazed East. The forest stretched out before them, in the far distance the Misty Mountains hazed in distant grey, Eriador laid out before them. Beyond the peaks lay Rhovanion, and the Great Wood, then Gondor where his granddaughter's children ruled, and Mordor which was becoming, slowly, slowly, a less evil place. Further still lay Harad and Rhûn and the lands to the East, the great landmass of Middle-Earth where he and his family and his people had made their lives for long centuries. Strife there was here, and the land was changing into the domain of men and slipping out of their grasp, but... Celeborn sighed as the wind plucked at their hair. He loved it. This was his home and there were wonders here which were dissimilar to the wonders of the Blessed Realm. He would leave it, he was not one who wanted to stay here only, but (curse you, Círdan!) he was not yet ready to part from it forever.
Thranduil led them aimlessly through the woods until they came upon a clear stream that flowed into a pool. There he left Celeborn, darting away into the trees. Thranduil returned every few hours, or perhaps every few days, singing familiar songs and trailing his horse or wild deer. Whenever he sang songs that were not of the Earth, he sang the names of his kin into the Westernmost wood of Arda, teaching them to the trees and the stones. Celeborn dwelt in that clearing for a few weeks, sometimes walking but mostly sitting and listening and casting his mind about the surface of Arda, such as he could anymore. He found men, and some few Hobbits in their shrinking communities, and a handful of dwarves ensconced in their mountains. He found Evil, also, quietly enduring in slumbering corners, but in the changing landscape of Middle-Earth, he found also hope that when it came again for the free peoples upon it, they would be strong enough to repulse it once more.
He found love and he found people moving forward. And something clicked into place as he allowed himself to fully embrace the joy that filled him with such a realization, and eschewed any ounce of guilt. This is what Thranduil had found. No, he smiled to himself, this is what Thranduil had grasped with two hands and thrown himself into. Because this is what they had fought for. And by Eru, he would honor every sacrifice that had bought it by being around to enjoy it, at least for a little while.
Celeborn cast himself upon the ground, then, in the soft grasses and gazed up at the snatches of stars that he could see through the trees. Thranduil peered in on him some time later, laughing and lying down beside him.
'What merry fools we have become,' Celeborn mused, his eyes watching the stars. Romantically, he thought, they must have been a picture of the very first elves, awakening at Cuivienen. Thranduil made a sound of protest, though seemed to prefer not to articulate himself in words. Instead Celeborn felt his fëa rising up to touch his own, seeking to share the bittersweet enjoyment of the last days of their Arda. Gladly, Celeborn's fëa met him.
Celeborn tarried there a few more days, before rising and making a meandering way back towards the shores. When he once again approached the bay, Círdan was not anywhere to be seen. So, Celeborn walked to the edge of the dock to sit and listen to the waves and hum the song of the shoreline which praised Ossë and Círdan and lamented that soon no more elves would dwell among them.
Círdan sat beside him as the sun was dipping below the horizon, seeming unchanged in the intervening few weeks save for a clear streak of pleased amusement as he looked upon Celeborn.
'Where do you wander?' Celeborn asked.
'South, mostly,' replied Círdan. 'I went far today and yesterday, though I heard nothing.'
'What is it you are hoping to hear?'
Círdan did not reply to this, only his eyes seemed a touch sad when Celeborn looked.
'Is this the third thing we are waiting for?'
Círdan sighed heavily. 'This is to be the Last Ship. If he wants to seek the Sea after we are gone, he will have to make it on his own, and he would never undertake that journey of his own volition.'
'Of whom do you speak?' Celeborn asked carefully, though there was something like a dawning horror in the back of his mind. An old wound, old evils. He swallowed then, and the fey peace he'd gained with Thranduil for the moment deserted him.
'The last wanderer,' said Círdan. 'He will be lost to those who mourn him if he does not relent and give up his stubborn exile.'
'They were Doomed!' cried Celeborn.
'And the Doom of the Noldor long lifted,' Círdan sent him a hard look. 'He wanders the shores, you know. Has for thousands of years. He sings his Noldolantë, finding settlements of men and singing his laments and his tragedies so that they may not repeat them. I have sought for him before, but ever in vain. He runs, after all, from any elf who could stumble across him. Stubborn thing. This is the last, now, and I will not leave him upon these shores before I have tried to bring him along. I owe that much to many who await him in Aman.'
Celeborn was quiet then, for he and his house had been done grievous wrong by Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanorion, and those who would follow him. His wife, daughter of Finarfin, had vacillated over the years between a wicked anger of her cousins, and shame-faced sympathy. Celeborn, in his own heart, had never come quite to forgiveness of their wicked deeds, for much had been lost in the fall of Doriath, and Middle-Earth had been irreparably marred by the Oath of Fëanor.
Suddenly, he began to laugh. It burst through him in a frenzied release of tension, and quite would not let him go until he was wheezing for breath and wiping at his eyes. Círdan pat him upon the back while he struggled to get a handle on the slight hysteria. He barked a final laugh, before finally answering Círdan's quizzical and concerned look. 'Have you yet told Thranduil?'