Summer, Third Age 2931 The breeze over the Gulf of Lhûn blew steady and gentle, filling the white sails just full without turning fierce.
To either side stretched Lindon, the last gathering place of the Elves in the North.
This had been the realm of Gil-galad, the last High King of the Noldor, and it flourished for thousands of years until the Siege of Barad-dûr ended in the year 3441 of the Second Age.
There that great Elven king and the renowned hero of Men, Elendil (ancestor of Aragorn), fell together in battle against the Dark Lord Sauron, and the Elves of Lindon thereafter waned.
Yet when Círdan the Shipwright succeeded Gil-galad as lord of that wide land, the remaining Noldor and the Falathrim found again their honour and purpose.
The Elves gathered once more at the Grey Havens, the city at the mouth of the River Lhûn, and through long years the northern Elves grew prosperous anew.
Still, as an Elven saying goes: Evil never wholly retreats, and light follows close behind.
In the year 1975 of the Third Age, evil stirred again in the East.
Sauron’s most dreadful servant, the Witch-king of Angmar, the chief of the Nazgûl, was sent to sow chaos in the North and assailed the Mannish kingdom of Arthedain.
The last King of Gondor, Eärnur, the thirty-third in the line, joined forces with the Lord of the Grey Havens and marched a great host north to relieve the embattled realm.
The final battle was fought at Fornost.
There the combined host of Elves and Men prevailed; the Witch-king fled, and his armies were scattered like smoke before the wind.
But as ever, war yields no true victor.
Although the allied strength had broken the evil power, their own losses were grievous, and the Northern Elves, who had but barely begun to recover their strength, were once again burdened with sorrow they had not deserved.
Moreover, after the Third Age deepened, ever more Elves grew weary of the endless wars and strife of Middle-earth and chose to sail into the West, returning to the Undying Lands beyond the Sea.
Thus the Elves who remained in mortal lands dwindled further.
So it was that after the Battle of Fornost, the Lord of the Grey Havens withdrew his people from the wider world, concerning himself only with sending those Elves who had wearied of mortal lands back to the Blessed Realm, and taking no further part in the conflicts of Middle-earth.
The Northern Elves, too, no longer meddled in the world’s affairs, dwelling instead in the Grey Havens, the ancient home of the Noldor and the Falathrim that had endured since the Second Age, passing their last days in mortal lands in peace and tranquillity until the day came for each to depart to the eternal Elvenhome, the Blessed Realm of Valinor.
So matters had stood for nigh on two thousand years since Fornost, down to the present.
A ship of pure white sailed the calm waters of the Gulf of Lhûn.
The Elves, who love all things fair, had carved her hull with exquisite designs and pierced ornaments, so that a vessel meant to cleave the waves amid salt spray and clinging weed seemed more a work of art than a mere craft.
Círdan the Shipwright stood alone at the prow, scanning the northern shore of the gulf without cease.
Guided by a prompting from the Lord of Waters, he had sailed some hundred and fifty leagues northward and then bade his companions lower the sails halfway.
“It should be somewhere hereabouts,” he murmured.
The lord of the Grey Havens knew every fold of the northern coast, every shoal and current of his ancient home, and he searched with restless eyes, unwilling to miss the least sign of anything strange.
Suddenly, his keen gaze pierced the distance of several hundred yards and first alighted upon the Dragonborn, lying senseless on a shallow sandbank north of the gulf.
“Swiftly!
Over there!” cried the Lord of the Grey Havens, and his sharp eyes kindled with excitement as the salt-laden sea breeze lifted his beard.
The Elven guards at once steered the ship closer.
These tall Elves, clad in short sleeves and trousers and armed only with short swords, were of the Falathrim, folk of silver hair and keen, sea-grey eyes, unlike their Silvan kindred who favour woodlands and the bow.
With practiced ease they lowered the sails, coiled the lines, and cast anchor, each movement flowing as smoothly as that of seasoned mariners.
(It is worth noting that the Falathrim are the finest mariners among all the Elves save the Falmari of Valinor; both kindreds belong to the Teleri.
Those Teleri who completed the Great Journey and reached the Blessed Realm are called the Falmari, while the Falathrim are those Teleri and some Noldor who likewise love the sea and its music yet have not dwelt in Valinor.) Even before the ship was fully secured, the Lord of the Grey Havens could not restrain his eagerness; he leapt straight into the waist-deep water and hastened toward the prone form lying not far off.
His guards hurried after him.
Soon they stood before the Dragonborn, who had clearly been cast ashore unconscious.
“What a wondrous creation!” Círdan said, turning to his faithful guards.
“In this man I perceive the light of the stars themselves!
It is a radiance worthy of the great kings of old.
By the Lord of Waters, I deem that our last days in Middle-earth draw near, for this man’s coming heralds the end of an old age and the dawn of a new.
Is that not a thing to be celebrated?” The Shipwright, who had often spoken and shared drink with Ulmo, Ossë, and Uinen, great ones among the Valar and Maiar, understood more of the approaching Great Music than Elrond of Rivendell or the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, and his senses were keener.
The unconscious man before him had short black hair, a comely, bold-featured face, and a frame of staggering might.
Círdan judged him nigh on eight feet tall, surpassing even Elendil the Tall, the Númenórean hero who later became King of Gondor and whose stature was recorded at seven feet and eleven inches.
The stranger’s limbs were long and powerfully knit, his muscles as though cast from steel, and even a casual glance told of the astonishing strength within him.
Coupled with the deep, steady drumming of his heartbeat, the image of a slumbering dragon rose unbidden in the Lord of the Grey Havens’ mind.
The loyal guards likewise gazed in wonder at this man; tall, fair of form, wholly naked, and clearly one of the short-eared race of Men, who had been cast ashore by the sea.
They marvelled at the sight of a mortal frame more awe-inspiring than even the ancient statues of the holy Valar.
A mighty Man indeed, every Elf who beheld that body, though not yet his eyes, said within himself.
Shaking his head, Círdan cast aside the unworthy comparison.
In Arda, dragons are creatures of evil, yet though this man lay unconscious, the lord of the Grey Havens could say with certainty that no foul stench of evil clung to him.
That reek, born of a corrupted soul, cannot be hidden by any mask; it rises from within, a loathsome mark.
Rather, and strangely, Círdan felt an instinctive, heartfelt goodwill toward the mysterious stranger.
He therefore ordered his guards to carry the man back to the ship.
The Elves bore the Dragonborn aboard, and those who had remained on deck looked with curiosity upon the strange “Man” their comrades had brought.
They admired his near-perfect, godlike physique, though soon more than a few knowing, wry smiles appeared on their faces.
Taking a cloak offered by one of his folk, Círdan draped it over the Dragonborn’s form, hiding his nakedness from further eyes.
“Put about!” he commanded, and had the stranger carried to a cabin.
As if in answer, when the Elves shook out the sails and raised the anchor, the steady sea breeze at once swelled the white canvas taut, and the ship shot forward like an arrow, quickly attaining full speed.
Even the Falathrim mariners felt the gladness of the Lord of Waters; they lifted their voices in song, praising the greatness and mercy of the King of the Sea in melodies so fair they carried far across the waves, even as the Elves had done for three ages.
Círdan listened intently, hoping to glean more knowledge of the heaven-sent stranger from the Lord of Waters, but Ulmo did no more than send a following wind to speed them home to the Grey Havens, revealing no further glimpses of what was to come.
Sighing, Círdan went below and stood for a while beside the stranger’s bed before quietly withdrawing.
In the still cabin, the Elven singing drifted in, rhythmical and sonorous.
Then, without warning, a pair of slitted, amber-gold eyes snapped open, shining like lanterns in the night, like starlight before the dawn.
At last, he has gone.
The Dragonborn looked about him and realized he seemed to be aboard a ship.
(How could he tell?
The unsteady sway and the lurch of a vessel under sail are easy to recognise.) In truth, his senses had returned at the very moment the Lord of the Grey Havens had stepped into the cabin.
And Círdan had known at once.
The stranger’s heart beat too powerfully for an unconscious man, and the Elf’s keen ears caught the slight quickening of breath when he entered.
The muscles beneath that cloak, like sculpted marble, had tensed.
Círdan understood that the mysterious Dragonborn was already awake but, for whatever reason, feigned sleep.
With a gentle smile born of a life longer than the recorded history of the stranger’s entire race, the ancient Elf played along and withdrew.