"I am glad you made it out of that shipwreck with your life, Tindalma.  When I heard the reports of a ship headed for the cliffs-" the Lord of Eglarest paused, shaking his head in sorrow- "I was sorry, indeed.  I am more than pleased to meet you alive and well."

"And I, you, Lord Círdan," she replied, dipping her head in respect. 

The day had drug on into evening as Tindalma followed the three elves, who called themselves the Falathrim, to their port city of Eglarest.  There, Veryan had introduced her to their Lord, Círdan, the shipwright.  He was a tall ellon with white hair and grey eyes that shone with a calm wisdom.  The thing that struck her the most was the short cropped beard he sported, a feature quite rare among the Eldar.  He welcomed her in the Noldor tongue, after a short explanation from Veryan, and took her to speak in the main hall of his home, seated before a roaring fire.

"There hasn't been a survivor of a shipwreck against those coasts as long as I can remember."  He gave her a kind smile, a twinkle in his ocean grey eyes.  "And I can remember a quite long way back.  You must have Lord Ulmo's favor."

Tindalma turned aside, frowning into the flames blazing in the fireplace.  "If this is his favor," she said, pulling the cloak Veryan had given her on the trek back tighter around her, "I do not want to meet his displeasure."

The shipwright's eyes softened.  "I grieve with you for your companions.  Their names?"

"Aearion, my cousin.  And Faelon, a close friend," she said quietly.  "We'd been through much since the Kin-slaying."

He nodded silently, lips set in a thin line.  "I'm sorry.  I will send elves to search for them immediately.  You may go, yourself in the morning if you wish, but for tonight, rest."

"Thank you, my lord.  You have been more than kind."

He shook his head with a smile.  "Think nothing of it."

"Well, I will never forget it."  She smiled weakly.  "I hope I can repay you someday."

"No need," he replied, with a decisive shake of his head.  I'm pleased to have met one of my own people who has seen the Light of Aman.  I wish I had the chance to see it before..."  He broke off with a wave of his hand.  "I'm sure you know."

"Indeed," she said grimly.  "Why do you not cross the sea?  Surely as, a shipwright, you are also a mariner?"

"I am indeed."  He sat back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, with a thoughtful half smile.  "I stayed for... family reasons."

"I see," she murmured, not pushing the subject further.  They lapsed into silence, both lost in thought.  Tindalma's eyes darted to the fire dancing on the hearth.  The leaping flames cast flickering shadows across the long walls of the hall.  She liked the warm crackle and pop of burning wood. 

It reminded her of home, long, long ago, when her father would get down the violin from its hooks over the fireplace and play a tune.  Her mother would sing and she would dance.  She smiled faintly. 

But this was not Aman, and this was not the fireplace at home.  Home was a long ways off.  This was Beleriand.  These were the eastern lands of Middle Earth.  She blinked, tipping her head at Círdan.  "Do you have a map here or anything that I could get my bearings against?"

"Of course!"  He was out of his chair in a heart beat, striding across the room to a desk with a set of drawers built beneath it set against the wall behind her.  Tindalma listened to the quiet shuffling of papers, staring blankly into the fire.  Apparently Faelon wasn't the only seaman incapable of keeping a clean book. 

"Here we are."  Círdan appeared at her side, dragging his chair closer to the low table between them.  She sat forward in interest as he smoothed it out over the wooden surface.  The markings were none she recognized.  There had been an old map in a library in Alqualonde in the back of a book that dated from before the Eldar even reached Aman.  It had been sketchy at best, not nearly as detailed as Círdan's.

"This," he said, indicating a group of tiny buildings set back on the coast a wide firth, "Is Eglarest.  North is Brithombar, the Falathrim's second city.  North still are the lands of Nevrast and Hithlum, the realms of Turgon and Fingon, High Princes of the Noldor.  But Turgon left from there nigh on thirty years ago."

"Turgon and Fingon?" she questioned, frowning.  "I know of no Noldor princes by those names."

"You would know them as Turukáno and Findekáno.  Turgon and Fingon are simply translated to the language of these lands," he explained.

"Which is?"

"Sindarin.  It is spoken by the Sindar people and their king, Elwë, known now as Elu Thingol.  He rules from here, in Doriath in the city of Menegroth."  He pointed out a forest in the center of the map, sprawling across the split in a large river labeled Sirion in faint letters.  "But all the lands of Beleriand are his, as High King."

Elwë. She recognized the name. He was a Teleri Prince of old, one of the first to awake and lead their people to the sea. But he had never reached the coast, vanishing during their trek. Now it made sense that Sindarin and her own tongue were similar. "But why would they change their names to fit this land's customs?"  Last she had seen of the Noldor, they were not interested in conforming, waiting, or making peace with anyone.

"After the first few battles with Morgoth, the Noldor realized they would need the help of the Sindar if they even wanted to survive outside of the safety of Aman.  And Quenya was banned here after Thingol found out about the Kin-Slaying.  So they complied."

"Banned?" Tindalma found herself suddenly hesitant to speak, now understanding why Veryan had been so wary.

Círdan dismissed her worries with a wave of his hand. "Do not worry, Tindalma, we may speak it here and now with good reason."

"The king won't be angry with you?"

"Pah, he might be. But he'll be alright." The shipwright chuckled softly.  "My cousin can be a bit extreme."

"Cousin?" she exclaimed, sitting back to look him in the eye.  "You mean you're-"

"Prince Nowë, yes," he confirmed with a smile.  "Círdan is merely a name I have adopted.  Meaning, appropriately, shipwright."  He chuckled, looking down at the map again.

"Goodness," she murmured, blinking rapidly.  "So much is different than the little knowledge in the books and records at home."

"The world is not in your books, Tindalma," he said with a gentle smile.  "It's out here."

Tindalma hummed thoughtfully, staring blankly at the flames.  After a brief moment, she shook herself, looking up at the Lord of Eglarest.  "What else has happened?"

"Well," Círdan mused, sitting back thoughtfully.  "After Fëanor's host landed, they burned the ships."

"They did what?!" she cried bolting upright.  "Why?!"

"Fëanor did not trust his half brother.  He thought Fingolfin would betray him, so he left him in Valinor."

"Treacherous, dirty, rat," she snarled, gripping the armrest fiercely.

"He indeed had a temper," the shipwright murmured, a trace of sadness in his voice.  That alone made her hesitate. 

"Had?"

Círdan nodded.  "He is dead.  Killed by a demon Lieutenant of Morgoth in the first battle."

"His sons?" she questioned breathlessly.

"Alive," he said grimly.  "The eldest, Maedhros, was captured and held for thirty years before behind rescued by Fingon, son of Fingolfin."

"I thought Fingolfin's host was left in Valinor."

"They crossed Helcaraxë."

Her brow lifted slowly in disbelief.  "Why would they follow Fëanor after he abandoned them?"

"Shame?" he replied with a shake of his head.  "Fear?  After what happened at Alqualondë I am not surprised."

"All this over Fëanor's jewels," she murmured, leaning back in her seat, but Círdan shook his head.

"Since Fëanor's death," he began, fixing her with a grim stare, "It has become about more than the Silmarils.  Morgoth seeks dominion over all Middle Earth.  This is a fight for life now.  For now, his armies are confined in their fortress of Angband in the North under siege.  But this peace will end in a battle that we must win.  Should we lose... we will all fall to the shadow." 

Tindalma felt cold dread close over her heart, wondering what exactly she had crashed into.

Círdan gave her a kind, sad smile.  "But this is not your war.  The Falmari did not ask for this fight, and neither did you.  I can have a ship prepared for you to return to Aman in a week, along with a crew of those wishing to sail west."

"By the Valar," she whispered, stunned.  "Could you really?"

He chuckled and shrugged.  "Many of my people tire of this war already.  It will not be hard to find a few to accompany you."

Tindalma exhaled in a rush, a faint laugh escaping her lips.  "I- can't thank you enough, my lord."

He gave a hearty laugh.  "As I said before, no need.  You may stay here, in my home until the ship is prepared."  Standing, he offered her a hand.  She took it, pulling herself to her feet.  "But rest for now.  A search party leaves in the morning, and you may accompany them if you wish."

Tindalma straightened Veryan's cloak and smiled at the tall ellon before her.  "If ever you do sail to the West, come find me.  My hospitality may not repay your kindness today, but its the least I can do."

He patted her shoulder gently, soft smile lines forming beside his bright eyes.  "If ever I do, yours is the first name I shall ask for.  Come."

Tindalma followed Círdan up a set of stairs and down a hallway to a spacious guest room in the west wing of the house.  He swung open the door and stepped aside to let her pass. 

Tindalma was struck by how beautiful the architecture was.  White was a predominant theme like at home, but Eglarest held a more homey warmth.  A dark wood dresser was set against the wall, matching the frame of the four poster bed.  The thin columns supporting the walls were inlayed with bronze accents and auburn curtains hung to cover the doorway to a balcony overlooking the harbor.

"I trust this will suit you?" he inquired, leaning against the door frame.

"More than enough," she breathed, turning a slow circle to take in the room. 

"Excellent.  Rest well.  I will see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Lord Círdan," she said, smiling warmly.

He nodded farewell and stepped out, catching the door handle and pulling it shut.  Then he paused.  "Tindalma?  May I ask why a Falmar of Alqualondë has a Quenyan name?"

Tindalma hestitated, shy of telling him, now that she knew of the banning of Quenya.  "My father's family had Noldor blood.  He was always good friends with them, so he chose to give me a name in their tongue."

"I see," Círdan mused, eyes narrowed in thought as he gazed blankly at the floor.  "Well I bid you good night."

"Good night," she answered quietly.  For a moment she stood still, frowning at the closed door as his foot falls receded down the hall.  With a shrug, she turned away, strolling over to the balcony.  Sweeping aside the curtains she stepped out into the light of the moon, hanging low over the north east horizon.

From the high place, the roll and hiss of the waves on the shore was audible.  Tindalma closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath of sea air to quiet her racing mind.  So much to think of in just one night.

Círdan's words kept returning to her mind.  The favor of Lord Ulmo...  Tindalma had no idea why he would even notice her out of all her kindred, but the events of the voyage were nothing ordinary.  Barely even within the realm of possibility. 

Then there was the war torn lands she'd landed upon.  Fëanor, dead.  The princes and Sindar working together, even after the Kin-slaying.  They must indeed be desperate.  After what she'd heard, and the havoc Morgoth had wreaked on Aman, she could hardly blame them. 

And the last thought.  Her lips pursed.  She'd been avoiding it all night, trying to convince herself there was a possibility that Faelon and Aearion had made it out just as she had.  Once morning came she'd search for them.  And find them, she told herself with a hopeful smile at the stars flickering above, but the nagging doubt deep in her didn't believe it. 

With a quiet sigh, Tindalma closed her eyes.  They'd wait for her in Mandos.  Come back with all kinds of teasing and taunting, asking her if that was adventure enough.  A tear slipped down her cheek.  Slowly, she bent forward, resting her elbows on the railing, sobs lost on the ocean breeze.