-General-
-Eighth Week of the First Age-
The Years of the Trees had come to an end following the tragedy that plunged Valinor into darkness. With the rising of the Sun and the Moon began a new era for the world: the First Age, as the wise would call it in the texts of times to come.
But such names and memories belonged to the future.
For Ilarion, there was only the present.
Alongside Galadriel and the children of Fingolfin, he guided the wounded Noldor, as well as the women and children who had survived the tragedy.
In the waters near Valinor remained the bodies of many of their kin. The adults had paid the price for the blood spilled; but the children had been saved, for they did not bear the guilt of those who had stained themselves with the blood of their own kindred.
They followed in the wake of Círdan's Elves, better known as the Falathrim. That is how they themselves wished to be called: a fitting name for "the people of the coasts."
A day had already passed since they abandoned that makeshift camp following Fingolfin's departure. Judging by the position of the sun, which was already reaching its zenith, it must have been midday.
Their journey was made bearable by the songs the ladies sang, among which the one that struck the heart most deeply was the following:
Beneath cold stars we cross the sea,
Far from the gleam of Tirion.
Behind lies the light that does not die,
Ahead, the shadow and the edge of doom.
Oh, white shores never dreamed of,
Where the wind knows not our names,
We tread the sand of a new world
That never awaited our arrival.
Those verses captured the thoughts of all the Noldor.
After passing through a narrow gorge between mountains that rose like protective colossi, they finally glimpsed the haven of the Falathrim. The sight was imposing: structures of polished white stone clung to the slopes, while the sea reached inland, claiming its space.
However, the most striking feature was that tower of snow-white marble, where an unlit pyre awaited the return of night.
That scene was worthy of a canvas.
The Falathrim did not delay in coming to meet them to offer aid. With haste, they guided the wounded toward a pale-hued building, where the flickering of torches drew silvery flashes from the polished walls.
Ilarion turned to Galadriel and the rest of his cousins, firmly expressing his desire that they remain with the convalescents. At first, the radiant descendant of the Vanyar objected, but upon understanding that her cousin had to parley in private with the Lord of the Haven, she finally yielded.
"I shall take you before Lord Círdan," announced that Elf, the one who had compared him to his late grandfather.
Every step awoke an echo on the alabaster flagstones. The place strongly evoked the home of the Teleri, reaffirming the blood tie that united both peoples before their sundering. The wind, heavy with saltpeter and damp stone, caressed Ilarion's face, while the ebb and flow of the waves hummed an almost musical rhythm, as if the sea itself were composing an elegy to calm the spirit.
The haven possessed a beauty that defied any description.
Ilarion never imagined beholding such landscapes; the closest his memory held were the endless northern plains, stretching until they died on the horizon. It was a bitter irony: he had spent years in the light of Valinor and yet rarely stopped to admire the marvels of the Valar and those who inhabited it.
Upon learning that he had been reborn in this world, enthusiasm spurred him on; he trained and studied with the fervor of a curious child, ignorant of what destiny held in store for him. But who could blame him? In his previous existence, he was nothing more than a spectator of the films; someone who bought the books but allowed the dust to consume them on his shelf.
Routine always found a way to intervene, and now, that void in his knowledge was beginning to take its toll.
The Elf escorted him toward a secluded corner of the haven, where the roar of the waves gained intensity. An ascending path led them to a high lookout that offered an absolute panoramic view; to Ilarion's eyes, that was no simple haven, but a majestic port city.
There, on a balcony overlooking the ocean abyss, stood Círdan. He remained seated in an intricately carved marble chair, whose delicate details mimicked the eternal movement of the waves and the caprice of the winds. He watched in silence.
The guide motioned for him to step forward and immediately turned on his heel to withdraw; the matters to be discussed there were not his concern.
Círdan shifted his gaze toward Ilarion. For an instant, surprise flared in his eyes, and a nostalgic smile traced the contours of his lips: the figure of the son of Fëanor superimposed itself, almost spectrally, upon that of his old friend.
Like Círdan, Ilarion's eyes widened in astonishment. A thick, neatly trimmed beard accentuated the jawline of the Lord of the Haven. In all his years in Valinor, he had never seen a trace of facial hair on the Elves; encountering the first to possess it left him momentarily stunned.
"You are the very image of the Finwë of those days," Círdan spoke with the serenity of one who has watched hundreds of winters pass. "I did not expect the people of my friend to abandon the Blessed Realm the Valar promised them."
After clearing his thoughts, Ilarion straightened his posture.
"They say I am the very image of my grandfather, but I lack his wisdom and the makings of a leader," he replied with genuine humility.
Círdan let out a brief laugh at that declaration.
"Do not believe that Finwë was born with the gift of command. In those days he was intrepid and adventurous, nothing like the solemn figure you imagine." Círdan took an apple from a wooden bowl and observed it for a few seconds, his gaze lost in the labyrinth of his memories. "I am Círdan, Lord of this coastal people."
"Ilarion, son of Fëanor, Prince of the Noldor," he introduced himself.
Círdan nodded while spinning the apple between his fingers, sunk in a contemplative silence that lasted for several seconds.
"What has brought your kin back to these lands, Ilarion, son of Fëanor? And why do I not see Finwë among you?"
Ilarion let out a heavy sigh. He had repeated that story so many times that the tale was beginning to exhaust him.
"We come in search of justice," he replied, his voice somber. "We come to avenge the death of my grandfather."
Those words abruptly halted the hand guiding the fruit to the lips of the Lord of the Haven. Círdan's pupils contracted, and with a gaze laden with fury, he exclaimed:
"Finwë was slain? Who killed him?!"
**
Sorry, I've been focusing on the Aldril fanfic. As promised to my Patreon subscribers, three chapters will be about Aldril and one will be about Son of Feanor.
Don't forget to check out my Patreon—I'll be posting more fanfics there, which I'll of course upload to Webnovel later.
"[email protected]/Mrnevercry"