White Shores Are Calling
Lord of the Rings/Silmarillion fic, for penknife, of course.
In the Fourth Age, Celebrian is in the West, but it's not as her mother said it was. (This is a happy story, I promise.)
The birds are the first to know. They always are. Great flights of seagulls turn in the air above the towers of Tirion, flocking and swirling before they head out to sea. Celebrian is not often in Tirion, but today she is and she runs to the window to see. Yes, they are flying east in the cool morning air just after dawn and she sees the moment when they are joined by a bird which is no bird at all, shining like the last star in the brightening sky, Elwing taking flight with them.
Her uncle comes to the window beside her, still pulling on his doublet over his fine drawn white shirt, his golden hair unbound. It is his house, and Finrod can dress as he likes. She is the guest here. “Who is it?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. The birds have just gone out.” There is the eager sound in her voice, just like the rising voices in the street. The birds can only mean one thing - a ship. A ship can only mean one thing - someone that someone loves. Someone’s child, someone’s lover, someone’s mother has at last taken ship to the West. But who? They are not running to the docks yet. The ship is still out of sight over the curved horizon.
“I’ll go see,” Finrod says, and Celebrian follows him up the curving stairs to the flat roof of the tower. Across the heights above the sea on the Tower of Aqualondë the great signal panels are already turning, telling the news inland. It will cross the land in minutes to Elrond at Night’s Haven and he will come as soon as he can.
Finrod tugs on his long leather coat and opens the doors to roll out the machine, running his hand lovingly over the wing surfaces as he checks it.
“I’ll help,” Celebrian says, bending to the gears and struts. There are pedals that make the propeller turn, but most of what holds it in the air is the vast wing surfaces of oiled canvas, a tiny one man ship to sail the skies. It crashes some, but mostly it doesn’t, and elves heal better than most, especially Finrod who seems oblivious to danger. It doesn’t take terribly long. The ship’s topsails are barely in sight, caught in a wheeling cloud of gulls, before Finrod straps himself in the seat and Celebrian ducks out from under the wing.
“Any bets?” he asks his niece with a grin.
“I don’t take bets,” she says.
“Not Thranduil.”
“Never Thranduil,” she says. “That’s a sucker’s bet, uncle.”
He laughs and begins pedaling, the propeller turning, and she steps clear of the long sweep of wings. For a sickening moment it seems he does not have lift enough when he reaches the edge of the roof and plunges off, but then the machine rises, catching on the sea breeze. She sees him pulling the levers that turn it as it rises in an updraft, turning out to sea like some bizarre white bird himself. What will they make of that on the ship? It depends on who they are, she thinks, and for a moment allows herself to consider who it might be. She does not like to think about that. There are so many she would like to see, and so little likelihood that it is any of them. Elladan and Elrohir have made it plain that they intend to tarry in Middle Earth for long years to come. Her father has lingered there six thousand years and looks to linger six thousand more. And Arwen - Arwen will never come.
Celebrian watches the flying wing until it is out to sea, turning to circle around the ship and follow it in. It’s a gray ship, one of Cirdan’s design, not the smaller ships that the wood elves make when they go down the Anduin to southern havens, and her heart beats a little faster. Her sons would take a ship like this. If they did, which they won’t. She can see figures on the deck now, but it is too far to tell who anyone is, though surely Finrod knows by now.
On the tower, the panels turn, bringing in a reply from inland. She helped to build these panels and she knows the codes as she knows the Tengwar. Elrond is asking who it is, her mother’s signature tacked on the end. They are at Night’s Haven, so Earendil will be with them. Of course they want to know as much as she does. And they do not want to journey here in vain as so many do so often, arriving full of hope only to see strangers. But if they do not come, they will miss their beloved’s first sights of Elvenhome. Celebrian will not reply until she knows.
The ship is drawing nearer, Finrod circling on the wind. She wonders what they make of that. It is not in any of the stories, but then few things are. The stories are five thousand years old and more. Everything changes where the fingers of the Firstborn touch them, inveterate namers and claimers and builders and crafters. Finrod wanted wings, and he has them. There is nothing the Noldor cannot do given time, and they have time aplenty.
Now the figures are distinct, a scrap of white gold hair blowing in the wind, gray robes flying like the foam of their passage. Celebrian bites down on her lip. It could be. It might be. Her father’s hair is that color. It might be. The man is tall, with broad shoulders. White gold hair, gray robes. It might be.
And she can wait no longer. She flies down the stairs and out into the street, running over the white stones to the docks below.
The ship is around the breakwater by the time she joins the crowd, pushing amid the hopeful and the curious. It’s coming into the dock, sails down and oars out.
She knows the moment when he sees her. She sees his eyes widen and then his shoulders shake and he sways forward as though he would reach for her across the shrinking sea between them. “Ada!” she calls, raising her arms and pushing forward through the throng that gives way for her as it always does for those who are lucky, for the blessed. By the time she has reached the front of the crowd the ship is in the slip, a man ahead of her lifting a child to see someone and be seen. He does not wait until the lines are cast, but jumps down to the dock and then she is in his arms, clasped against her father’s heart.
Celeborn buries his face in her hair, tears running down his face. “Celebrian. Celebrian,” he says brokenly.
“I’m sorry mother’s not here. She’ll be here soon,” she says. “She’s at Night’s Haven with Elrond because…. Oh it’s a long story but you’ll hear it soon. Ada.” He smells just like he always did, like fir and quiet, since her first days. She holds him so tight. “You’ll have to tell me everything. And I’ll tell you everything. How are the boys? Will Elrohir ever get married?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” he says, and doesn’t let go. He does glance up as a wind blows across them, the flying wing circling over the crowd. “What in the world is that?”
“Uncle Finrod,” she says.
He starts laughing helplessly, disbelievingly. “The Noldor. There is nothing like the Noldor.”
She looks up at him, her heart too full to find the right words. “Oh Ada. Wait till you see what we’ve begun.”
In the Fourth Age, Celebrian is in the West, but it's not as her mother said it was. (This is a happy story, I promise.)
The birds are the first to know. They always are. Great flights of seagulls turn in the air above the towers of Tirion, flocking and swirling before they head out to sea. Celebrian is not often in Tirion, but today she is and she runs to the window to see. Yes, they are flying east in the cool morning air just after dawn and she sees the moment when they are joined by a bird which is no bird at all, shining like the last star in the brightening sky, Elwing taking flight with them.
Her uncle comes to the window beside her, still pulling on his doublet over his fine drawn white shirt, his golden hair unbound. It is his house, and Finrod can dress as he likes. She is the guest here. “Who is it?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet. The birds have just gone out.” There is the eager sound in her voice, just like the rising voices in the street. The birds can only mean one thing - a ship. A ship can only mean one thing - someone that someone loves. Someone’s child, someone’s lover, someone’s mother has at last taken ship to the West. But who? They are not running to the docks yet. The ship is still out of sight over the curved horizon.
“I’ll go see,” Finrod says, and Celebrian follows him up the curving stairs to the flat roof of the tower. Across the heights above the sea on the Tower of Aqualondë the great signal panels are already turning, telling the news inland. It will cross the land in minutes to Elrond at Night’s Haven and he will come as soon as he can.
Finrod tugs on his long leather coat and opens the doors to roll out the machine, running his hand lovingly over the wing surfaces as he checks it.
“I’ll help,” Celebrian says, bending to the gears and struts. There are pedals that make the propeller turn, but most of what holds it in the air is the vast wing surfaces of oiled canvas, a tiny one man ship to sail the skies. It crashes some, but mostly it doesn’t, and elves heal better than most, especially Finrod who seems oblivious to danger. It doesn’t take terribly long. The ship’s topsails are barely in sight, caught in a wheeling cloud of gulls, before Finrod straps himself in the seat and Celebrian ducks out from under the wing.
“Any bets?” he asks his niece with a grin.
“I don’t take bets,” she says.
“Not Thranduil.”
“Never Thranduil,” she says. “That’s a sucker’s bet, uncle.”
He laughs and begins pedaling, the propeller turning, and she steps clear of the long sweep of wings. For a sickening moment it seems he does not have lift enough when he reaches the edge of the roof and plunges off, but then the machine rises, catching on the sea breeze. She sees him pulling the levers that turn it as it rises in an updraft, turning out to sea like some bizarre white bird himself. What will they make of that on the ship? It depends on who they are, she thinks, and for a moment allows herself to consider who it might be. She does not like to think about that. There are so many she would like to see, and so little likelihood that it is any of them. Elladan and Elrohir have made it plain that they intend to tarry in Middle Earth for long years to come. Her father has lingered there six thousand years and looks to linger six thousand more. And Arwen - Arwen will never come.
Celebrian watches the flying wing until it is out to sea, turning to circle around the ship and follow it in. It’s a gray ship, one of Cirdan’s design, not the smaller ships that the wood elves make when they go down the Anduin to southern havens, and her heart beats a little faster. Her sons would take a ship like this. If they did, which they won’t. She can see figures on the deck now, but it is too far to tell who anyone is, though surely Finrod knows by now.
On the tower, the panels turn, bringing in a reply from inland. She helped to build these panels and she knows the codes as she knows the Tengwar. Elrond is asking who it is, her mother’s signature tacked on the end. They are at Night’s Haven, so Earendil will be with them. Of course they want to know as much as she does. And they do not want to journey here in vain as so many do so often, arriving full of hope only to see strangers. But if they do not come, they will miss their beloved’s first sights of Elvenhome. Celebrian will not reply until she knows.
The ship is drawing nearer, Finrod circling on the wind. She wonders what they make of that. It is not in any of the stories, but then few things are. The stories are five thousand years old and more. Everything changes where the fingers of the Firstborn touch them, inveterate namers and claimers and builders and crafters. Finrod wanted wings, and he has them. There is nothing the Noldor cannot do given time, and they have time aplenty.
Now the figures are distinct, a scrap of white gold hair blowing in the wind, gray robes flying like the foam of their passage. Celebrian bites down on her lip. It could be. It might be. Her father’s hair is that color. It might be. The man is tall, with broad shoulders. White gold hair, gray robes. It might be.
And she can wait no longer. She flies down the stairs and out into the street, running over the white stones to the docks below.
The ship is around the breakwater by the time she joins the crowd, pushing amid the hopeful and the curious. It’s coming into the dock, sails down and oars out.
She knows the moment when he sees her. She sees his eyes widen and then his shoulders shake and he sways forward as though he would reach for her across the shrinking sea between them. “Ada!” she calls, raising her arms and pushing forward through the throng that gives way for her as it always does for those who are lucky, for the blessed. By the time she has reached the front of the crowd the ship is in the slip, a man ahead of her lifting a child to see someone and be seen. He does not wait until the lines are cast, but jumps down to the dock and then she is in his arms, clasped against her father’s heart.
Celeborn buries his face in her hair, tears running down his face. “Celebrian. Celebrian,” he says brokenly.
“I’m sorry mother’s not here. She’ll be here soon,” she says. “She’s at Night’s Haven with Elrond because…. Oh it’s a long story but you’ll hear it soon. Ada.” He smells just like he always did, like fir and quiet, since her first days. She holds him so tight. “You’ll have to tell me everything. And I’ll tell you everything. How are the boys? Will Elrohir ever get married?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” he says, and doesn’t let go. He does glance up as a wind blows across them, the flying wing circling over the crowd. “What in the world is that?”
“Uncle Finrod,” she says.
He starts laughing helplessly, disbelievingly. “The Noldor. There is nothing like the Noldor.”
She looks up at him, her heart too full to find the right words. “Oh Ada. Wait till you see what we’ve begun.”