When the sacred horn rang out, Fena was just as startled.
She flexed her limbs, and as the stiffness finally began to ease, she turned urgently to the Dragonborn.
“Stop, Ochriamm.
Something is amiss.
We must return to Mithlond, the Grey Havens, at once.” The Dragonborn, equally astonished, ceased his inward experiments with the power that stirred within him.
He stepped to her side, his voice resonant and commanding.
“Are you unharmed, Fena?
Forgive me; I have not yet learned to properly control it…” By the final word his tone had steadied into something ordinary, and the oppressive weight of that power withdrew.
“Ah.
Much better,” Fena declared.
She paid no mind to the Dragonborn’s childlike fascination with his ‘new toy’.
Certain now that her body answered her will, she seized his hand and began to run toward the Grey Havens.
“Hold your tongue, you booming oaf!
This is no time to show off.
The sacred horn has been sounded; something dire must have happened.
Be good, and come with me!” The Dragonborn blinked, uncertain why her mood had shifted so sharply.
Dire?
What could be dire?
Even as he ran, he wracked his memory.
Yet in his recollections the Northern Elves had truly emerged only in the Second Age; the well-known events of the Third Age touched them but little, and he could not recall any particular calamity befalling them at this hour.
Then he remembered the Grey Wizard he had seen earlier in the white council hall, and as he ran he grew thoughtful.
Could it be because of Gandalf, that perennial meddler… that old vagabond?
“The sacred horn has not been sounded in over two thousand years,” Fena explained as they ran.
“Since its forging it has served but one purpose: war!” Just as I thought!
the Dragonborn exclaimed inwardly.
Small wonder the folk of Middle-earth were never overjoyed to see Wizards.
These fellows always played the part of ill-omened crows, bearing no tidings but war and calamity.
It would be a marvel if they were well loved.
His thoughts became a torrent of private mockery, yet beneath it he grew troubled, for a nagging sense whispered that this sudden peril facing the Northern Elves might well have been stirred by himself, a butterfly from a distant Amazon flapping its wings.
Fena, too, had no heart for bickering after the horn’s call.
They fell silent and sped on, and soon they stood once more at the Grey Havens.
There before the great white gates that faced the mouth of the River Lhûn and the East Road, they came upon Elven outriders already arrayed in marching order.
“Galdor!” Fena halted and called out in astonishment to an Elf she knew.
“What has happened?
Why has the Lord sounded the sacred horn?
Where are you bound?
Why are you all armed and armoured?
Has war broken out?” The Elf she addressed was tall and golden-haired, his eyes keen and bright.
He wore gilded armour and a helm of exquisite craftsmanship, richly adorned with the silver Tree emblem so lifelike it seemed to stir.
The Dragonborn had marked over the past days that this Elf was one of the few knights of the Grey Havens, charged with patrolling the wide lands and borders east and north.
His name, it seemed, was Galdor.
“Fena.” The Elven knight glanced at the towering, oppressive figure of the Dragonborn, then spoke gravely.
“Ill tidings.
The Grey Wizard brings word that servants of evil march against us.
To safeguard Mithlond, the Lord has ordered all the land to be put on alert.
Many outriders are to be sent forth to search and patrol the watchposts east and north.” So saying, Galdor, as gallant as a prince riding to war, mounted his horse and cried to the waiting knights, “Ride now, my brothers and sisters!
Fate awaits us ahead!” Then the valiant knight looked down at Fena once more.
“The Lord is seeking you, Fena…” His gaze strayed again to the Dragonborn, whose great stature seemed almost godlike, and he added with wonder, “And you as well, our guest.” The handsome golden-haired knight could not restrain his curiosity any longer.
“Was it you who made those two mighty thunderclaps just now?” At this, all the Elven knights turned their heads, regarding the dark-haired Dragonborn with calm but curious eyes.
“Ah.” Surrounded by mounted knights on tall white steeds and clad in heavy armour, the Dragonborn nodded without a flicker of expression.
Though he understood little of their speech, the word ‘thunderclap’ was clear enough by now, having heard it more than once today.
Is it so strange, merely raising one’s voice a little louder?
he muttered to himself.
Yet outwardly he revealed nothing.
Though half expecting it, Galdor and the other knights could not help but eye the towering giant with renewed astonishment when he confirmed it.
“We salute you!” Mastering his wonder, Galdor gave the dark-haired Dragonborn a courteous nod, then wheeled his horse and spurred it like an arrow into the distance.
The rest of the elite company followed, galloping swiftly after him.
Their quivers were filled with feathered arrows, longbows slung across their backs, swords and long knives at their hips, and steel lances for mounted combat hanging from their saddles.
They rode with a menacing, battle-ready presence, as though war were already upon them.
A thunder of hooves rolled across the land.
Noble were the Elven steeds, and in a heartbeat the company had vanished into the distance.
As the rumble of their passing faded, Fena took the Dragonborn’s hand again and strode briskly toward the council hall.
“Come, enough gawking.
Let us find the Lord first!” You were the one who stopped first, the Dragonborn thought, rolling his eyes at how she always blamed him when his Elvish failed.
He inwardly grumbled at her taking advantage of his still imperfect command of the tongue to shift blame onto him.
One of these days I’ll… Held by her soft, slender, fair hand, he secretly plotted future revenge, petty grievances stewing in his heart.
Soon, however, his attention was captured by the transformation of the Grey Havens.
The once tranquil, peaceful harbour now stirred as if a slumbering giant had awakened.
At the Lord’s decree to Arms for the defence of the Grey Havens, the thousands of Noldor, Sindar, and Falathrim who dwelt here brought forth their finely wrought armour, swords, and bows, long unused and gathering dust.
Poets and singers became valiant Elven warriors in a trice.
A clanking of metal arose.
Squad by squad, fully armed Elven warriors with shouldered spears, swords at their sides, curved bows and arrow cases on their backs, swiftly mustered under their captains and converged upon the square before the council hall.
The cold iron-shod boots of the Elves rang sharp on the hard white paving stones, but save for that, the vast Grey Havens fell utterly silent.
The Dragonborn’s eyes widened as he watched, awestruck, the Elves flowing silently and swiftly from every direction like streams converging upon the square.
The entire assembly took but a dozen minutes, and apart from the whisper of armour as they moved, not a single other sound was made.
In that moment, a phrase rose in his mind, perhaps ill-fitting yet perfectly expressing his heart’s thought: A forest of spears, a wall of wings for the realm!
The Dragonborn halted and paid silent homage to the strength and confidence of these Elves.
Though their faces were utterly calm, from that epic scene of fluttering banners, bristling spears, and ready arrows, one could feel the overwhelming might and self-assurance of the Firstborn.
That was the bedrock of their rightful place as the central thread through ages without number.
In the ancient darkness, before the Sun and Moon first rose, numberless Elves had kindled the dark annals with the fire of their lives, cleaving a path through hardship for the civilisation to come, lighting the way for those who followed.
And later, when the Dark Enemy Morgoth destroyed the Two Trees and the Holy Ones set aloft the Sun, Arien, and the Moon, Tilion, to illumine the vast lands of Middle-earth and the Blessed Realm, the Elves waged a war of centuries against that Dark Foe.
In that era, the ancestors of Men had not yet awakened.
In those ages, the leitmotif of history was the Eldar, who with countless flames of life kindled and lit that epoch until the final coming of the Light.
Then, having shed too much blood and spent too many lives, the Elves began slowly to wane, and their former vassals, the Secondborn, stepped forth onto history’s stage.
The Second Age saw the alliance of Men and Elves to make war upon the fallen Maia who would become the Dark Lord Sauron.
And now the wheel of time had rolled implacably into the Third Age.
The Elves grew ever more diminished.
Now even Lindon, once the greatest and last flourishing kingdom of the Elves in the North, could muster but a few thousand souls.
While other Elves yet dwelt scattered across Lindon, the Grey Havens remained the largest gathering, home to eight of every ten Northern Elves.
On the high ground before the council hall, Círdan gazed down at his people with a touch of sorrow, remembering the ancient days when the Elf-kingdoms had raised forests of banners and unending horns resounded.
His tall frame seemed somewhat worn, as though the weight of years had taken its toll.
He looked upon that last strength of the Northern Elves standing in the square before the white hall, his grey beard streaming in the sea wind.
At length, the last Elf-king of the North spoke, his voice sonorous and sweeping, like the roar of the sea.
“People of Lindon.
The Grey Wizard brings tidings most dire: the darkness stirs anew.
This time its malevolent gaze has fallen upon fair and noble Mithlond.
The shadow of war looms over the Northern Elves!” Below the high white hall lay the Petal Square.
The Elves had planted many beech trees around the square and before the hall, so that each autumn and spring, golden leaves drifted on the gentle sea wind and carpeted the hall and the square.
Thus the council hall and its square were also called the Hall of Petals, or the Golden Hall.
Some five thousand Elves, arrayed in stern and gleaming war-gear, listened in quiet composure to their lord’s rallying words.
“‘To arms!'” (The Dragonborn’s Elvish was not yet equal to the task; the Lord had actually said prepare for war.) “People of the Northern Kingdom, war is at hand.
The hour of trial is upon us!
“Sharpen your eyes, hone your blades, and with iron and fire let these foul, misshapen, craven wretches who dare covet our home know that the Elves have never forgotten the honour and valour that dwell in our blood and bone!” Here Círdan cried out in Quenya a phrase of great heartening power, but the Dragonborn had not yet learned that tongue and did not grasp its meaning.
Even so, he felt a surge of warlike fervour and encouragement, as though a roaring flame had met him in the midst of snow.
“Arta!” And the five thousand warriors of Lindon struck the butts of their steel spears against the ground and gave the loudest, most stirring cry the Dragonborn had ever heard.
In the summer of 2931 of the Third Age, the Dragonborn witnessed in the Grey Havens the rousing muster of the Northern Elves, and the wheels of fate began to turn.
After the proclamation, the Lord of the Grey Havens once more received the Dragonborn in his council hall.
“Lord Círdan.” Having witnessed the heroic mien of the Haven’s lord, the Dragonborn greeted him with even greater deference.
(Admittedly, the sight of that elite and mighty host played its part.) “I am told you summoned me.
How may I be of service?” The Dragonborn blinked and stole a glance at the ever more imposing figure of Círdan.
He noticed that Gandalf the Grey was no longer present.
Where the fellow had gone, he could not guess… “There is no need for such formality!” Círdan laughed heartily.
Perhaps it was the comfort of familiar halls that set him at ease, but in private Círdan shed his kingly sternness and resumed a kindly manner.
“Elves may be prudent and disciplined, but we Northern Elves are also warm and welcoming hosts.” The Shipwright gave a droll wink.
“Lay aside your courtesies and formalities, my friend.
The Northern Elves shall ever be steadfast friends and companions to our guests.
Keep your candour and your fire.
Before you stands ever the jesting, wise shipwright Círdan, not the ruler of the Northern Kingdom!” Poor Dragonborn.
Círdan’s speech flowed like verse, and with only half a month’s study of Elvish, it left him half-choked.
He blinked his golden, dragon-like slit-pupiled eyes with an expression that seemed to say, Go on, if I understand another word, you win.
This amused Círdan greatly.
His heavy, shadowed heart was much lightened.
He smiled and leaned back upon his great chair, his keen, wise eyes staring into the empty air as if lost in thought.
After a long silence, he began to speak, slowly and deliberately, now and then pausing to explain word by word.
The majestic lord vanished entirely, reduced to this patient and slightly pitiful effort.
And yet more pitiable, perhaps, was our Dragonborn, for only Eru knew how many wits he burned out trying to grasp the meaning.
At that moment, a rather impious thought occurred to him: Why had Ilúvatar not simply made him able to understand all speech?
“Ochriamm, as you have no doubt heard, a new trial approaches the Northern Elves.
The shadow of the East once more stretches into the North.
“Evil covets the Grey Havens, seeking to snuff out the last blessed and holy home of the Northern Elves.
Cruel and vile minions of darkness will soon assail us.
A great battle is unavoidable.” At that moment, the female cook, who had vanished somewhere during the muster, slipped quietly back into the hall, her face impassive, and stood behind the Dragonborn.
“In the face of the coming war, the Northern Elves may not have the leisure to ensure your safety.” Círdan glanced at the Elf-woman who had said nothing since entering and continued, “If you wish, I shall bid Fena to guide you out of the Grey Havens by the south, pass through the Tower Hills, and take the South Road to the last refuge of all that is good east of the Sea: Rivendell.
“It is the dwelling of Elrond, Lord of the Hidden Valley.
There you shall find fine food, soft beds, and fair sights to ease the heart.
And above all, under Lord Elrond’s protection you may dwell in comfort and peace, free from the threat of the Dark One’s minions… A hard road it may be, yet it is a road of hope.
May the light of Elbereth shine upon your head!” Círdan’s grey eyes fixed upon the Dragonborn’s golden slitted ones, and he asked with great portent, “What say you, Ochriamm?
Will you remain, or continue your fated journey…?” At the entrance of the Hall of Petals, Ilwen’s pointed ears twitched now and then as she ‘overheard’ the talk within.
Suddenly her face brightened with delight, and her slender figure straightened even more.
Another Elf beside her could not help but smile.
“Ilwen, compose your features.
Your joy is far too plain.
Elbereth be praised, you look just like Beren when he first beheld Lúthien…” The Noldorin maid sprang up at once.
“Be silent!
Your tongue wags worse than a chattering yellowhammer!” Her companions burst into merry laughter.
Before long, the dark-haired Dragonborn and the cook emerged.
None could know what words had passed within… (or could they?) Seeing the Elves merrily encircling the female guard and singing an Elvish song he could not understand, the dark-haired Dragonborn asked the cook Fena in bewilderment, “What are they doing?
Is there cause for rejoicing?
They seem so joyful…” Fena’s face was a mask; she said nothing.