Summer, 2931 of the Third Age Has anyone ever tried plunging from tens of thousands of meters, without any safety gear, straight into icy seawater?
The Otherworldly Soul had.
He had bid farewell to that great Will, or so he believed.
Because of the wild, churning Outer Dark, his consciousness was already shattered and frayed.
Heaven alone knows how he survived a crossing that even gods would hesitate to undertake.
He only recalled that one day, as he struggled to rise from his beloved blankets, the overworked young man, blessed, as the saying went, with the fortune of relentless toil…felt his blood pressure surge, pitched forward, and struck the back of his head against the hard bedframe before blacking out entirely.
When he came to, he found himself in an indescribable place of absolute stillness, a true dead silence where any weak-willed being would simply go mad, lose themselves, and wander until eternal death.
The Otherworldly Soul could scarcely remember how he endured that time.
He only recalled that when he could hold on no longer, at the very brink of the end, a force thrust him out of that everlasting silent void and into the “embrace” of a presence so beautiful and sacred that no words in any world could describe it.
Forgive his once more blurred awareness.
Facing the sublime and holy Eru Ilúvatar, the Creator of Eä, the soul from another world felt only a profound warmth.
He remembered lazy autumn afternoons, lying beside the little river in his hometown, basking in gentle sunlight and savoring the rare leisure that adulthood seldom granted.
Yes, that had been truly wonderful.
So thought the Otherworldly Soul.
Then Ilúvatar perceived his “irreverence” and swiftly gazed through his soul.
There was no doubt: to the Otherworldly Soul, Ilúvatar was utterly omnipotent, a real God who had fashioned all things.
The tiny spark of will within his soul was as stardust before the sun….nay, even less, before that being of innate holiness.
So in the end, the Otherworldly Soul simply surrendered, releasing his consciousness and letting the Great Will examine his “past” and “knowledge.” Soon that great Will found something that astonished even itself.
Eru, who was the Beginning and the End of all things, seemed greatly pleased and satisfied with it, and resolved to bestow a reward upon this otherworldly soul whose flickering flame of life seemed ready to gutter out at any moment.
It spoke thus: “May you possess a heart like that of a dragon, mighty and strong!
May your eyes be keen and far-seeing, undimmed by any mist!
May your body be hale and sound, fearing neither bitter cold nor scorching heat!
May your will be steadfast and enduring!
All that I have made and blessed shall befriend you; all that I loathe and reject shall not harm you!
May the stars shine upon you, O soul from the Great Music!
When loneliness and grief for a far home stir within your heart, the starlight of dawn shall soothe your sorrow!” Plainly, Ilúvatar bestowed upon this soul from another world a blessing no less than that given to the Firstborn (the Elves; Men being the Secondborn), as a reward for what it had “received.” Well, though the Otherworldly Soul had no idea what it saw.
Undeniably, compared to what he had given, what he received seemed… not bad?
For as the vast, mighty voice of Ilúvatar faded, the Otherworldly Soul once more felt the solidity of a body.
Yes, he had been restored to life.
Thus, at that moment, the soul from another world was deeply grateful to the Great Will.
At the very least, it had saved his feeble soul at his direst hour, used its mighty power to reshape a body for him, and cast him into a real, tangible world!
Only… If only the wind were gentler.
Flailing wildly, the Otherworldly Soul was hurled back from beyond the heavens by the Most Holy Eru into Middle-earth.
As he entered the physical realm, the laws of nature instantly manifested upon him.
The air ignited from his descent, so that from afar he looked like a shooting star.
The Otherworldly Soul peered about in wonder, and beneath him stretched the Belegaer, the Great Sea west of Middle-earth!
“Ah, how blue this sea is!” Just before he would be dashed to pulp once more, the newly embodied Otherworldly Soul thought thus, and then plunged headfirst into the cold waters, some hundred and fifty leagues from the Grey Havens, the greatest Elven port in the North.
The immense force sent him sinking like a cannonball to the seabed, raising a mighty splash.
Ha!
He had not perished!
Amid the searing pain that wracked his entire body, the Otherworldly Soul joyfully realized that he could still think.
Perhaps because of that great gust of wind earlier?
Faintly, he recalled the final mighty wind before his fall, musing.
However… Soon the Otherworldly Soul ceased his futile musing, for he realized with dismay that although he had not been smashed to paste, he, a hopeless landlubber, could not swim!
(He had only ever gone fishing to bask in the sun.) Confirming that he had all his limbs and his wits intact, the Otherworldly Soul floundered clumsily like a waterlogged husky, splashing about as he opened his eyes and gazed at the almost impossibly blue water.
But his thrashing did nothing save drag him down faster!
So, in the end, was death inescapable?
Watching himself slowly sink deeper, the Otherworldly Soul somehow gave up struggling.
He optimistically thought, perhaps this way he might float?
And then the Otherworldly Soul indeed discovered with delighted surprise that as he relaxed, a current surged up from the deep, gently lifting him above the surface and bearing him toward the shore hundreds of kilometers away.
Cough, cough.
The Otherworldly Soul coughed violently; in his panic he had swallowed much of the fiercely briny seawater, yet the pain was nothing compared to the joy of rescue.
The current of Belegaer seemed wonderfully gentle; the Otherworldly Soul even sensed the power within it.
He spread his limbs and gazed once more at the azure sky before sinking into unconsciousness.
Soon, this strange current carried the Otherworldly Soul and washed him ashore.
Then the current swirled and vanished.
The Grey Havens, also called Mithlond, was the port on the northwestern coast of Middle-earth.
It lay at the mouth of the River Lhûn in the Gulf of Lhûn, with the Elven realm of Lindon to the north and south of the gulf.
Elves from east of Eriador could travel across Eriador via the North-South Road and the East-West Road to reach the Grey Havens, and from there set sail for the Undying Lands in the West.
This place was ruled by Círdan the Shipwright.
He was a mighty Elf who had lived since the First Age.
Ulmo, Lord of Waters, and his servants Ossë and Uinen deeply loved this Telerin Elf renowned for his shipbuilding and song, and had more than once revealed miracles and prophecies before him, guiding him and his Falathrim, those sea-loving and singing Teleri, through disaster after disaster.
That day, the Shipwright beheld with wonder a star falling from the sky, plunging into a bay in northern Lindon, some hundred and fifty leagues from the Grey Havens.
At this, all the Grey Havens were astir.
Countless Falathrim emerged from their white buildings adorned with delicate carvings, from pavilions and the shore, their singing hushed, and gathered upon the harbour’s northwest-facing strand, murmuring among themselves.
And Círdan the Shipwright, in a daze, heard a voice.
“Círdan Shipwright, go north one hundred and fifty leagues, across the Gulf of Lhûn.
There is one who plucks the strings of the world.
You shall bring him back and teach him well.
This is your duty, and your grace!” The voice was deep and commanding, inherently majestic, and having spoken, it faded.
Swiftly, Círdan, fully awake, knew it to be Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, King of the Sea, who dwells in the Outer Ocean and prefers to keep some distance from the Firstborn and the Valar.
Thus, Círdan, already astounded by the strange fiery globe falling from the sky, swiftly gave commands and set sail in person, journeying to the place the Lord of Waters had named, seeking the one of whom the Lord had spoken.
“This is my duty, and my grace!” Círdan thought in excitement, handling his vessel with even greater swiftness and skill, as the roaring sea wind streamed through his silver hair, lifting shimmering strands of silver light.
“When I accomplish this, great Eru will be truly glad, and I shall gain a place in the holy halls of the Valar.
Yes, I can feel it!” As early as the First Age, Círdan had followed Elwë Singollo, one of the leaders of the Teleri and later the founder of the kingdom of Doriath, along with Olwë, who would eventually cross Belegaer and become king of the Teleri in the Blessed Realm, leading the Telerin Elves, later called the Sea-elves, westward into Beleriand.
Yet because he tarried to search for the missing Elwë Singollo, Círdan missed the chance to sail to the Blessed Realm.
Though he later found the lost Elwë, and in the southwest of Beleriand, which would later sink beneath the waves, he built his own cities and havens.
It was in that time that the Lord of Waters and later Ossë (who was not a Vala, but a mighty Maia of Ulmo’s allegiance) took notice of this small kindred of Teleri who loved the sea and song above all else.
Later, through many great wars of the First and Second Ages, Círdan the Shipwright became one of the mighty heroes whose legends endured in Middle-earth, and he bore the solemn charge of sending the Elves who remained in Middle-earth after the Last Alliance to the Blessed Realm.
Even such a hero destined for greatness could not contain his excitement when he heard that he was to rescue a chosen one who might pluck the strings of the world.
For he knew that when this was done, he would earn a place of honor in the Blessed Realm in the West, to dwell in bliss everlasting until the end of time, and his name would be remembered throughout Middle-earth and the mortal lands of the East; this was the design of the One, which naught in Eä could gainsay?