- ~~~ The Seekers I - The Gathering ~~~
“You are telling me that none… NONE!... of these vessels will take up my commission?†Alandriel’s voice, tight and controlled, held in check by the awe inspiring presence of the regal elf, nevertheless betrayed her exasperation.
“My ladyâ€, the Teleri’s tone was soothing and appeasing as he shook his head slightly, “I have tried to tell you for a few days now. There is nothing that I can do; maybe at a later time.â€
Alandriel bowed in return and he soon disappeared amongst a small crowd of elves that had gathered by the pier.
‘Now what….?’
“Still no luck, aye?†Alandriel turned around.
Leaning nonchalantly against a stack of crates, scraping a piece of wood with a knife, was the same rugged, dark haired man she had talked to on a few occasions these past days: by her reckoning a Ranger from the North; one of a few that since the end of the War of the Rings seemed to have made the Grey Havens, or rather – it’s environs their haunt; for adjacent to the ancient harbour had sprung up a new settlement, a village of sorts: a trading outpost, ideally situated closer to the mouth of the river Lhûn.
Fishermen mostly lived there, trading their bounty from the rich estuary with the few farmers that determinedly scraped a meagre living off the marshy land. Infrequently river-men from the North hawked furs and ivory there, the latter even attracting the occasional dwarf from the Blue Mountains. Peace seemed to have driven some of the more adventurous folk to seek out new opportunities in the largely empty lands of the West. The village, despite being not much more than a shanty town had nevertheless the feel of a warm and close-knit if not vibrant place common to communities forced to work closely hand in hand.
Yet these were ‘normal’ folk; rugged, yes – even ‘rough’, just like the man who had addressed her. What set him apart however were his eyes, the way he looked at her with that disconcertingly sharp gaze of his. What had brought the likes of him, for she had noted the presence of a few others, to the ancient and fading elf haven she could only guess at. Maybe it had something to do with King Elessar’s renewed interest in the North and his resolve - so she had heard - to one day revive the old glory of what once had been the cities of the Kings of Arthedain. Mithlond after all had played an important role also as a port for many a party of allies, be it Númenorean or Gondorian. Maybe this Ranger had been sent to keep an eye out; and what better ‘disguise’ than as in an ‘official’ capacity of harbour master’s assistant?
Surely if she had been greatly troubled by the sudden exodus of many high lords and ladies some weeks ago and their subsequent return, others must have noticed too. That is what had drawn her here: rumours of a great gathering in a mysterious place by the name of Tor-Ontó.
“No luck.†She sighed. “And there I was hoping that since the parties have all now returned, I would be able to secure….â€
“They are all taken. I’ve told you so before.†Another wood shaving fell to the ground. “See those?†With the knife he pointed briefly at the group of elves by the pier before returning to his carving.
“They have been waiting to set sail and now that the ships have returned…..â€
“Yet more elves are leaving these shores?â€
He nodded and then lowered his voice so that Alandriel felt compelled to step closer in order to hear his words.
“They call themselves Cuiviémar… somewhere from the North. A strange sight - with their elaborately embroidered robes of grey or white, their thick fur cloaks. Dark haired yet fair……very fair… so much so it is almost as if the light shines through them….â€
He lowered his hands and sheathed his blade, holding up the pointed piece of wood for her to see. “That will do.â€
Alandriel nodded yet it was not the sharply pointed peg that held her attention but his last words. Some elves indeed could give that impression, especially the ones born under the light of the trees. Only once had she encountered such a being. But despite that only brief meeting, she could well understand the awe and uneasiness she had detected in the man’s voice. Cuiviémar…. She only possessed a fleeting knowledge of the High Elven tongue but it had something to do with ‘to awake’, ‘awakening’. The exact term she had never heard before, of that she was certain yet it reminded her of another word….
Elves from the North? Where from the North? By the looks of them and the manner of their attire they certainly had not come from any ‘North’ that she knew. And why were they leaving now? Did that have anything to do with what she had begun to suspect? To fear? Was he trying to tell her something? She looked at him sharply yet he only grinned back crookedly. Exasperatedly she sighed and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. She knew she would not get anything further out of him. She had tried before – a few times and all in vain.
“Well then, let me know if a vessel becomes available… ANY vessel. Please! It is most urgent. You can find me…â€
“Yes, yes I know, my lady,’ he said almost mockingly, “at the House of the Seven Stars, you’ve told me a few times already.â€
‘Strange woman, and quite insane…. wanting to set off this early in the year…. and going North, of all places’, he mused, watching the woman climb the stairs that lead to the promenade lining the harbour area. As she vanished into one of the many alleys he sighed and retrieved the large leather-bound harbour log from atop the stack of crates. ‘So slight, almost fragile but my, her hair is the colour of her spirit! Don’t envy the captain that will take her on…..if indeed there is one foolish enough to do so; for that amount, why, she could purchase a new ketch!’
His gaze wandered over the harbour and then he grinned. A single mast sailing boat, smaller than the elven vessels yet well built from some dark wood he did not recognize was just rounding the pier in search for suitable anchorage.
***
With measured steps Alandriel set off down the same, by now all too familiar lane framed by ancient, imposing buildings. Despite their showing signs of crumbling, fading like the elves that had built them, they had, to her eyes, lost none of their splendour. This route would take her more or less directly to the outskirts where the House of the Seven Stars stood, a dwelling once of the Eldar, long ago deserted by its previous owners.
A burly man of dubious origin had taken over and transformed the once magnificent mansion into a guest house of sorts with many chambers and complete with taproom and stables. Business had been brisk the past months due to the influx of travellers. When Alandriel initially had enquired for a room she had been turned away, taking up temporary residence at the tower of Elostirion instead. Some time later, after the ships first departure she had returned and managed, quite easily to secure lodgings. Two connecting rooms actually that once must have been the chambers of a high elf lady; much to the current owners chagrin for she had refused point blank to yield her quarters when the travellers had returned and refused to pay a higher price than initially agreed. There was no way she would go back to Elostirion. Despite the fact that she never regretted having followed her instincts there, for she had made some interesting discoveries not to mention a certain fortuitous acquaintance, the ruined tower had a haunted feel to it – too many lingering memories of times long past.
It had been from there she had sent missives asking for aid, messages that then had been mysteriously carried to places as far away as Edoras, her childhood home; Lothlórien; even Minas Tirith and Dale. Letters, she hoped, that would yield a response; for there to be hope of success with the endeavour she had in mind, she needed reinforcements. Help from valiant people of any race willing to risk their lives for the continuation of peace and prosperity in Middle Earth. That there was something foul afoot, something potentially very evil of that she had no doubt. She needed to see for herself, certain that many of her questions would be answered if only she could find Tor-Ontó, that strange place whose exact location no-one she had dared question seemed able to remember. And in order to seek out that place, she needed a ship.
‘No ships! No boats! Not even a tub!’ she cursed under her breath, almost stubbing her soft booted feet on some protruding cobblestones. ‘What am I going to….?’
Suddenly a high pitched shriek issued from the small street ahead of her and she saw some passer-by’s duck, yelling out in angry surprise. Raising her arm to shield her eyes against the glare of the mid-day sun, a sudden, forceful rush of wind blew her hood back, tangling some strands of fiery hair into her face and thereby occluding her vision once more. The strong gripping motion on her raised arm however left her in no doubt as to what had just happened.
“I told you not to follow me – not here,†she whispered urgently, lowering her arm and stooping as the other people had done.
Drawing her cloak swiftly across her chest she effectively hid the brown and white speckled falcon that had come to a perch on the almost black braces she wore underneath her tunic but which had become exposed during her shielding motion. Neither of them she wanted noticed by curious eyes nor did she want to answer any queries. Quickening her step, she disappeared into yet another side street, away from the frowns and prying glances.
Having turned yet another corner and certain she had not been followed, she stopped under a graceful arch that supported a veranda stretching between two buildings.
“Why did you come?†she enquired of the raptor that only blinked a few times. “Has someone finally asked for me?†A small croak escaped the falcon’s beak. Alandriel smiled.
“Go back then, and wait for me. And don’t let anyone see you.†And with that the Ranger stepped out from under the shadow of the arch and tossed the bird high into the air.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She stood on the deserted beach, and stared down at the broken ship. The hull was like a skeleton, with planks ripped away by the fury of Ossë and the timbers reaching for the sky like the hand of a drowning man. The ragged shreds of the sail still clutched the wood, caught on splinters, flapping in the wind like ghosts angry at an unforgiving world. Only the shrill cries of the seagulls answered the ragged pleading of the canvas, and they did not care.
Under the broken spars, a sailor cried in pain. His arm still moved, the broken fingers clutching at the sand trying to drag his shattered body up the beach towards the woman who watched him with disdain. But the woman only looked to the East. When she turned back to the sailor again the arm was still and scuttling crabs picked at the cold flesh, warring with the gulls for the choice bits.
The woman turned and walked away from the corpse, wiping her mouth on a silken scrap from the sailor’s shirt.