The Eve of Battle, A Steadfast Heart.
It was the deep of night.
In the east, the Star of Eärendil, emblem of hope, lay dim and veiled, while in the north the seven great stars of Valacirca, sign of war and strife, blazed bright.
They shone even as they had in the ages before the Valar came to Middle-earth to make war upon the Dark Enemy Morgoth and drag him back in chains to Aman.
Thus those seven stars were called the Sickle of the Valar.
Dragonborn, his thoughts knotted and restless, sat sleepless upon the northernmost quay of the Grey Havens, where the salt breeze faintly intoxicated.
He listened to the waves of Belegaer crash endlessly against the stone embankment.
Much like his mood, the sea that night poured into the Gulf of Lhûn with uncommon fury.
The wind drove the tide with a great roar, hurling it against the stone jetty, where it shattered and fell back in defeat.
Yet the waves, heaving and subsiding for a brief moment, surged again, gathered strength, and once more flung themselves against the shore, over and over without end.
But the granite the Elves had used to build quays fit for great ships was exceedingly strong; the white embankment stood unmoved, and under the starlight it even shimmered with a faint glow.
The tide of Lhûn, powerless, slowly retreated, dragging countless defenseless pebbles into the deep.
Behind him lay the Grey Havens, once a place of peace and soft laughter, now silent and still as a ghostly realm.
The Elves disliked open flame; throughout the vast Grey Havens, on the smooth paved streets and before the tall, roofless Gothic houses, they used a kind of fluorite that shone with a clear, soft light under the stars.
It was bright but not harsh, bathing the whole harbour in a silver-white luminescence, beautiful, yet cold.
After a long while, Dragonborn heard, drifting from somewhere unknown, a melody more sorrowful and solemn than the cheerful, lively Elven songs of before.
He inclined his ear, listening intently, sensing the rich emotion within the Elves’ hearts, lost in a daze of wonder.
The events of the day weighed heavily upon him.
First, Gandalf the Grey, the wizard of legend, appeared before him with tidings of great doom; and soon after, the power within him began to stir and manifest.
It was hard to deny a connection, and Dragonborn faintly sensed that something fateful, almost theatrical, was beginning to unfold.
He reminded himself that this was a world of gods.
Dragonborn felt that he might already be entangled in the doom of this land of sword and sorcery, caught up in the fates of Elves, Dwarves, Men, Wizards, and creatures of the Dark.
At this, Dragonborn, who came from a land of peace and calm, felt both inexplicable excitement and stirring; what youth has never dreamed of riding a dragon, wielding a sacred sword, and saving the world?
Yet at the same time, having been an ordinary man in his former life, he instinctively felt fear.
For in this world, demons were real, and the thought that some dreadful being of untold age might have marked him made Dragonborn shudder.
He confessed to himself that he was afraid to die.
Else he would not have remained silent when the Master of the Grey Havens asked whether he would stay or depart.
Sitting before a warm fire with a cup of mead and a bowl of roasted nuts, watching with excitement the epic struggle of Light against Darkness, the lament of Elves and Men, that was a fine delight.
But when you truly stand amid iron and fire, among screams and horror, could you still so blithely shout, “Lok’tar ogar!” Ah, wrong saga.
With a self-deprecating smile, Dragonborn reined in his wandering thoughts.
His mortal will made him instinctually afraid.
Yet after his panic cooled, this former drudge of a pitiless workhouse, like so many who, forced to bow their once-proud heads to earn their bread, still found within them a defiant roar when true righteousness called, summoned a fiery cry from his new life.
No, I may fear death, but I do not cling to life at any cost!
He could of course retreat to Rivendell, but what of the next time?
This time he could let the Elves stand before him and flee, but the next?
Would he always choose to flee whenever hardship arose?
Dragonborn looked down at his great hands, blessed by Ilúvatar and full of strength; he clenched them, feeling the power within, and quietly asked himself, “In my last life I was powerless.
Must I flee in this one as well?” At that moment, the Elven melody came to an end, and the Grey Havens sank once more into soundless stillness.
He lifted his gaze to the clear night sky of Middle-earth and remained silent.
Time passed, the heavens grew darker, and even the stars’ light seemed to dim before this deepening gloom; the darkness before dawn had arrived.
Then, in the east, Eärendil, whom the Elves called the Star of Great Hope, shone forth with bright rays, mirroring the seven stars of Valacirca in the north, a spectacle of wonder.
All other stars dimmed before those two, their light the brightest in all the river of the sky.
Dragonborn smiled.
Under the starlight of early dawn, a force called hope rose within him, scattering fear and disquiet, leaving him calm and serene.
“So be it!” Dragonborn said.
“If it is my doom to die here, then I shall meet it with a willing heart!” He spoke the words he had said earlier to the Master of the Havens: “I will fight alongside the Elves, for the sake of life!” Though he had dwelt among the Elves but half a month, it was undeniable: they had taken him in when he knew nothing, taught him the languages and lore of this world, and treated him as guest and friend, warmly welcoming him.
Dragonborn felt he could not simply turn and flee.
No, he could not.
It was not a matter of virtue; he simply did not wish to live so selfishly.
Having steadied his heart, the Dragonborn’s mood lightened.
He hummed a little tune from his former life, its melody light and simple, compared to Elven songs, at least.
“What tune is that?” A clear, cool voice spoke.
Without turning, the Dragonborn knew it was Eliveth, the shield-maiden.
As if he had known all along where she stood, Dragonborn did not lift his eyes but gazed out over the starlit, shimmering Gulf of Lhûn, cheerfully humming a melody that only he could understand.
Beneath the stars, Eliveth had shed her war-gear and now wore a white robe of maidenly grace, adorned with gems and threads of silver.
It made her already fair and radiant face shine all the more, like the stars above.
She listened in wonder to a melody not of this world, sensing the quiet peace in Dragonborn’s heart, and walked gracefully toward him as if treading on moonlight.
Dragonborn said nothing, for he knew not how to explain, and so merely hummed the tune from long ago.
The Elf-maiden quietly sat beside the dark-haired Dragonborn, and mimicking him, leaned back on her hands upon the cold stone, tilting her head to gaze at the stars.
Thus they remained, left and right, one tall and one shorter, one humming and the other listening, sharing a melody that belonged only to them.
Until dawn.
In the distance, a pair of eyes, just as bright and star-like, dimmed for a moment, and then turned and departed.
“What is this about?” The Dragonborn, who had not slept all night, was summoned again by the Master of the Havens to the Hall of Petals, the council chamber.
There he saw, apart from Círdan, the shield-maiden Eliveth, who had sat quietly with him for a while, then left before the rising of Arien the Sun.
Yet a bond of understanding had been woven that night, and it would lead to all that followed, though neither of them knew it yet.
Now, Círdan’s guard, the Elf-maiden Eliveth, bore at her hip a longsword, and in her hands she held a fearsome blade meant perhaps for horseback combat.
It was a sword with a blade near a hand’s breadth wide and almost two meters long, fitted with a two-handed hilt and a gem-studded guard, taller than the Elf herself!
Dragonborn could not help but stare at the dreadful weapon, and he murmured, bewildered.
As if knowing all that had passed between them the night before, the Master of the Havens smiled gently and said, “Ocriannim, I will not judge your choice, nor deny it, but the Elves will ever remember the aid of a friend.” The Lord of the Havens bowed formally to Dragonborn.
Elves do not meddle in the fates of others; to them, all outcomes spring from one’s own choices.
Since Dragonborn had chosen to stay, Círdan could only say: so it was fated, none may gainsay it.
“May the stars shine upon the end of your road, my friend!” The Dragonborn hastened to return the bow, then looked uncertainly at the Elven-king and the shield-maiden beside him.
Círdan then continued with a smile, “Though I am grateful for the precious friendship you have offered when the Elves have most need, I must say this, Ocriannim.
Your skill at arms is nearly naught, and the help you can give by staying in the Grey Havens is vanishingly small.
Are you certain you wish to remain?” Dragonborn had not expected the summons to be for this; after a long moment he realized he was being gently “scorned.” Embarrassed, his golden slit-pupiled eyes flickered, and he could find no words.
True, passionate oaths ring bravely, but war is cold steel, torn flesh, and mortal peril; one misstep and your head will be kicked about like a ball.
Even the Dragonborn cannot sprout a second head.
Thinking that in the eyes of the Elves he might not even match a common soldier, Dragonborn said, half-ashamed and half-desperate, “I can fight.
Trust me.” In his urgency, a measure of the molten, seething power within the Dragonborn bled forth.
It made his voice resound and seize the mind, so that even Círdan and Eliveth were briefly dazed.
Though this was not the first time he had felt the Dragonborn’s might, Círdan was still deeply shaken by its overwhelming, astonishing potential.
He paused, then said in praise, “Ocriannim, your promise is boundless.
In you I sense a power that even the High Kings of the Elves of old could not match.
Are you certain you would spend your future when the fruit is yet unripe and the wheat but newly sprouted?” The dark-haired Dragonborn might not grasp every word of the Shipwright, but he could feel the care behind them.
He nodded firmly and said, “My resolve has not wavered.” The Elven-king of the North looked long at him and, unexpectedly, argued no more.
Instead, he praised him sincerely: “Though I sorrow to hear what may prove a rash choice, I am likewise moved by the steadfast heart of this fated child of dragon-blood.
It is a most noble quality, worthy of the ancient saint-kings alone.
“May the light of Elbereth shine upon you, shielding you from all harms of the Dark!
Even so, I deem it needful that Eliveth teach you somewhat of sword-craft.
She is among the mightiest blade-masters at my side, and under her tutelage, at least you shall not cut yourself with your own blade when the hour comes.” Truly, I have told you I cannot follow your long, song-like speeches, and yet you continue.
As if only then recalling that the dark-haired Dragonborn might not understand, Círdan nodded helplessly to the shield-maiden.
The Elf-maiden, who had been waiting, stepped forward and tossed the great horse-sword to Dragonborn, then drew her own single-edged longsword, lifted her chin, and assumed a gesture of challenge that needed no translation.
Fumbling to catch the long-hafted weapon meant for mounted combat, and then seeing the shield-maiden in a fighting stance, even dull Dragonborn understood what was afoot.
“I know you mean well, but isn’t this rather looking down on me?” Dragonborn, indignant, hefted the fearsome Elven horse-cleaver with one hand.
The blade of over two meters was almost a single-hand weapon for him.
He swung it a few times, excited, then frowned.
Elven weapons were fine, but to him now, they felt far too light.
Still, he struck a pose he thought quite dashing.
As expected, thought Círdan and the shield-maiden at once.
“Good luck!” said the Master of the Havens, who had seen what he wished, with a wry wink; then he turned away, unable to watch.
Hey now.
Dragonborn began to regret this.
As a common man from a time of peace, it was only natural to be unskilled in blades.
What of it, that one looked scornful and the other sighed in despair?
If they wanted a contest, let it be with firearms… Ah, but he knew nothing of those either.
Looking down at the huge horse-cleaver in his hand, then at the shield-maiden who held only a slender Elven single-edged blade, the Dragonborn, knowing he was outmatched, cried out mournfully, “At least promise not to strike the face!” Eliveth smiled coldly and lunged.
“Damn, you wench, you’re really hitting me!” Dragonborn shouted in a tongue only he understood, causing a passing company of Elves to glance over.
“Whoa, Eliveth strikes fiercely,” one Elf murmured to his companion.
“Was it not said she fancied Ocriannim?
Why is she so harsh…” The companion, hearing this, couldn’t resist a look, then nodded with lingering dread.
“Eliveth is nothing like Lúthien.
Lúthien was never so violent!” Clearly, the Elves’ jest the day before about the shield-maiden’s affection for the Dragonborn had spread anew.
And so, on the high ground before the white council hall, our hapless dark-haired Dragonborn was thoroughly thrashed by a battle-hardened Elf-maid whose skill was near-perfect, leaving only the impotent howls of a beaten cur.
The sorry tale was soon woven by the merry Elves into a cheerful ballad, becoming legend.