Chapter 40
In the spring of 495 of the First Age, Tuor stood on the turbulent shores of Belegère. The salt wind filled his lungs and heart with a power he had never experienced before. He was the first Man to reach this western sea, and a deep, eternal longing took root in his breast, pulling at his soul like a tide. The call of the sea would remain with him for the rest of his life.
As time passed, Tuor and Idril raised Eärendil under the protection of Gondolin. However, Tuor's longing for the sea grew stronger with age. Watching his father gaze forlornly toward the west, Eärendil understood the calling deep within his blood. Finally, shortly after Eärendil came of age, Tuor decided to answer the call of the sea. He poured his heart and soul into building a sturdy ship. On a morning bathed in the morning mist, Tuor and his beloved Idril bid farewell to the hidden city of Gondolin and their grown son, Eärendil. They sailed out onto the waves of Belegaer, heading west in search of the fabled realm of the Valar. Their figures vanished over the horizon, leaving Eärendil alone on the shore, his heart filled with blessings and longing for his parents.
Earendil inherited his father's courage, his mother's brilliance, and his father's love of the sea. He built a new home at the mouths of Sirion, where he fell in love and married Elwing, the beautiful and strong daughter of Dior. The wedding took place at the mouths of Sirion, bathed in sunshine and refreshing sea breezes. Meereen, invited as a key witness, was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of Dior, son of Beren and Lúthien, now the wise Lord of Tol Galen. He waved to Dior from afar, and Dior immediately recognized the man to whom his mother had entrusted the Silmaril before her death, and who had returned it to Fëanorion after the War of Tears. He warmly responded to Meereen's greetings. Although King Thingol and Queen Melian were not present, the prosperity of Doriath and the presence of Thingol were themselves the greatest comforts to the fallen hero, lending a touch of peace to the wedding.
These glimmers of hope failed to dispel the gathering clouds of darkness over Beleriand. The keen senses of the Elven Sentinels detected a dark force growing stronger and fouler from the depths of Angband in the north. Morgoth did not remain silent for long after the losses in the Battle of Tears. Like a dormant beast, he licked his wounds and prepared for a more violent counterattack. The Orcs' harassment was no longer a scattered, scattered attack; it became organized and destructive. They spread like a plague across the wilderness and even began to penetrate the mountains, attacking the strongholds of the Dwarves. Beasts and twisted creatures corrupted by darkness also appeared in increasing numbers from the shadows. The Elves fearfully predicted that Morgoth's next full-scale attack might not come for another century.
Earendil had personally participated in many of Turgon's campaigns against Morgoth, witnessing the devastation and suffering he had wrought. His hatred for Morgoth grew, and he felt the limits of the Free People's power. Memories of childhood emerged, of lying in the warm embrace of Meereen, listening to the Undead tell of the wonders of Aman: the compassion of Estë, the matchless radiance of the Two Trees, the eternal spring in the Gardens of Lórien. These stories, like seeds, had long been planted within him. A thought grew clear and strong in his mind: Could a route through the vastness of Belegaer reach the fabled Blessed Land? Perhaps by meeting the Valar and seeking their aid, he could finally end the eternal night Morgoth had wrought on Middle-earth. This thought grew more urgent as the shadow of the North deepened.
Eärendil embarked on an ambitious voyage of exploration, building a vast ship, bearing not only the faint hope of finding his parents but also the weighty responsibility of finding a passage to Valinor. He sailed into uncharted waters, discovered countless uncharted islands, and witnessed the ocean's vastness and dangers. However, each time he ventured westward, he encountered an incomprehensible spell—his sense of direction suddenly became disoriented, the stars seemed to shift, or he was blocked by a sea of thick, light-absorbing shadows. Strong headwinds, like invisible walls, repeatedly pushed his ship back into known waters. Hope seemed so near, yet so far away, leaving Eärendil with a deep sense of frustration and anxiety.
Confused and eager for guidance, Earendil journeyed to Nargothrond, seeking aid from his most trusted elders. When Meereen heard Earendil's plan to seek the aid of the Valar, a flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes, then gave way to deep approval and relief. "Eärendil," Meereen said, his voice steady with the experience of life, "your plan is bold and wise. Indeed, the strength of the creatures of Middle-earth alone is too weak to withstand the growing darkness of Morgoth, and Finrod has often worried about this. Seeking final judgment and aid from the Valar is the only hope of breaking the deadlock." He commended Earendil's foresight, but the challenge of breaking through the spell and shadow remained.
Meereen pondered deeply, his years of experience accustomed him to searching the past for clues. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck him. He remembered Queen Melian's all-seeing look and her brief yet profound words when she had returned the Silmaril at Himring. He immediately took up his pen and wrote a letter to Queen Melian of Doriath, detailing Earendil's plight and his resolve to seek the help of the Valar.
Melian's reply arrived quickly, still concise and powerful:
"Meereen, your thoughts touch the strings of fate. The jewels of Fëanor, their light gleaming from the very essence of the Two Trees, are the purest signs of light in the music of Arda. The mists of the islands entangle mortal minds, the Sea of Shadows devours all radiance, both distort and obscure the light. Only this fundamental light can pierce illusions, guide lost ships, and carve a path through darkness.
The time has come for the sons of Fëanor to fulfill their promise. I will go with you to Himring. Melian
Meanwhile, the clouds of war thickened. Glorfindel, returning from a massive campaign against the Orc lairs deep within the Ered Luin Mountains, found Meereen in the wounded camp of Nargothrond. The Golden Flower Lord removed his bloodstained armor and sat wearily, his handsome face etched with barely concealed irritation. "Meereen, these Orcs! They are like cockroaches, crawling out of cracks in the earth, from rotting tree roots. We strike one, and soon more appear in another. The shadow of Morgoth is like a plague, spreading madly in unseen places." He gulped down a large glass of water, his voice trailing off. "Our strength is far from what it was before the War of Tears. Gondolin, Nargothrond, Doriath... we are all working hard, but if Morgoth were to come out in full force now, as he did last time..." Glorfindel trailed off, but the worry in his eyes spoke volumes.
Glorfindel's words were a wake-up call, confirming Meereen's worst fears. The Alliance's strength was returning, but not nearly as fast as the spread of darkness. Without further hesitation, he immediately arranged a date with Queen Melian and set out for Himring.
As Meereen and Queen Melian, shrouded in a hazy aura, entered the magnificent stone and steel halls of Himring, the atmosphere was remarkably solemn and subtle. The years had passed, and the forbidding atmosphere of Fëanorion seemed to have subsided. Maedhros personally greeted them. His features remained resolute, but his brows no longer held the fierceness that burned night and day with his oaths, instead embodying the somberness of a life lived through. Even more surprising was Celegorm. He didn't glare at Meereen with the same hostility or mockery he had in the past. Instead, he gave a slightly stiff, yet effective, nod of greeting. Curufin's gaze remained sharp, but without the calculating snarl. Caranthir stood silently by, while the twins, Amrod and Amras, observed Melian and Meereen with a touch of curiosity. Maglor stood a little further away, his gaze fixed on Meereen with a complex expression, as if examining a connection both distant and unbreakable.
Queen Melian spoke directly. Her voice was ethereal and calm, yet it held undeniable power, like moonlight piercing the mists of the forest, echoing through the silent hall. "Sons of Fëanor, Meereen and I come this day to fulfill the promise you made then. The shadow of Morgoth falls upon the land again, and the creatures of Middle-earth teeter on the brink of the abyss. Earendil, son of Tuor and Idril, has been chosen by fate. He will sail westward to seek the help of the Valar and end this long darkness."
She paused briefly, her gaze penetrating the heart. "Yet, the passage to Aman is obscured by an ancient enchantment, obscured by a deep shadow. Only the Silmarils you guard, their light gleaming from the purest flame of the Two Trees, can pierce these mists, illuminate a safe passage, and dispel the darkness that devours the light. That light is the only hope for guiding the lost and dispelling delusion."
Her tone became more resolute, with a sense of declaring destiny: "Now is the time for you to fulfill your promise: send the gems to Valinor, so that their brilliance can finally serve the great purpose for which they were created - to repair the Two Trees. Let Earendil carry this light and become a bridge connecting the suffering of Middle-earth with the mercy of the Valar!"
Her words were like an invisible pressure, hanging over the hearts of Fëanor's sons. Maedhros was silent for a moment, his eyes sweeping over his brothers. Celegorm moved his lips, as if he wanted to refute something, but he finally suppressed his words under Maedhros's gaze. Curufin frowned, obviously weighing the pros and cons. Caranthir had a blank expression. Maglor closed his eyes, as if recalling something. Finally, Maedhros spoke slowly, his voice low and full of a finality: "Queen Melian, Meereen. We remember our promise. It is also our long-cherished wish to fight against Morgoth and end the darkness in Middle-earth. If the light of the Silmaril can truly guide Earendil to Valinor, in exchange for the judgment and assistance of the Valar, then..." He took a deep breath, "We will fulfill our promise."
Maedhros turned and approached a closely guarded chest deep within the hall. He opened it, and instantly, a pure light, imbued with the golden glow of Laurelin and the silver flame of Telperion, illuminated the austere halls of Himring once more. Within the chest lay the three Silmarils, as if they had never left the sight of House Fëanor. Maedhros reached out his remaining hand and held them out with great solemnity. The radiant light illuminated the deep scars on his face and his serene eyes. He stepped before Queen Melian and handed the three stars, bearing the weight of endless fate, glory, and curse, to the Maia.
"May their light illuminate the path to hope, as the queen has said." Maedhros' voice was filled with an indescribable complex emotion.
Queen Melian took the Silmaril in her hands. The Supreme Light seemed even more divine and gentle in her hands. She nodded slightly. "This light shall be worthy of its purpose." She turned to Meereen. "Send word to Earendil at once, and have him ready at the mouth of Sirion. The ship of fate shall set sail."
News spread like wind to the mouths of the Sirion. Earendil, receiving the message from Meereen, was overcome with emotion. He immediately began making the final, most meticulous preparations for the great ship, strengthening the hull and stocking it with supplies for the long voyage. His wife, Elwing, without hesitation, firmly pledged to accompany him on this pilgrimage filled with uncertainty and risk, sharing life and death. They solemnly entrusted their young twin sons, Elrond and Elros, to Turgon's care. Turgon's eyes were filled with reluctance and pride, and he promised to protect the children with his own life, awaiting their parents' possible return.
The day of farewell finally arrived. One morning in the year 542 of the First Age, many elves gathered at the mouths of Sirion. Messengers from Gondolin, elves from Nargothrond, representatives from Doriath, and the Men and Elves who lived at the mouth of the river all came to see Earendil and his wife off. The sea breeze whipped the robes and banners of the crowds. Meereen looked at Earendil and saw himself, as if on his first arrival in Middle-earth, as well as the shadows of Tuor and Idril, his heart filled with hope and blessings.
Queen Melian personally returned the three Silmarils to Earendil. He crafted three delicate settings of mithril, set the Silmarils within, and connected them with a strong mithril chain, creating a necklace of dazzling light. When he wore the necklace around his neck, the radiance of the three Silmarils seemed to merge with his own light, forming a soft, sacred aura around him that frightened anyone who looked directly at it. This radiance not only illuminated the surroundings but also seemed to possess the supreme power to penetrate the mist and dispel darkness.
"Guide by the stars, sail by the light!" Earendil stood at the bow and shouted to the farewell crowd, "For the freedom and light of Middle-earth!" Elwing stood beside him, his eyes equally determined.
"Eärendil! Elwing! May the stars guide your journey!" The crowd that was seeing them off burst into shouts of blessings.
The great ship hoisted its white sails, illuminated by the radiance of the Silmaril, seemingly bearing a sea of stars as it slowly sailed away from the mouths of the Sirion, bound for the vast, mist-shrouded West of Belegér. Meereen stood on the shore, watching the receding ship, enveloped in divine light, his hands clasped in silent prayer. He knew that the fate of Middle-earth, the judgment of the Valar, depended on this voyage. With the Silmaril once more illuminating, the ship of hope finally set sail on the journey that would determine the future of Arda.
Earendil's ship cut through the deep blue waves and entered the uncharted waters known in ancient legends as the Cursed Isles. This region was perpetually shrouded in a shifting mist, not merely a vapor, but one that held a power that bewildered the mind. Upon entering, Earendil and Elwing felt their sense of direction begin to disorient. Compass needles spun wildly, and the positions of the stars twisted and distorted in the mist, as if all space were folding and swirling. Whispering songs and unreal visions emerged from the fog, seeking to lure the ship to the rocks or into an eternal labyrinth. Even the most experienced sailors could become lost here, eventually running out of supplies and drifting hopelessly or sinking.
As the Silmarils at Earendil's neck sensed the power of this twisted mind, they suddenly blazed with even greater intensity. The warm golden glow of Laurelin and the cool silver of Telperion intertwined into a single, pure beam that pierced the heart of the dense fog. This radiance, emanating from the very essence of the Two Trees, dispelled the whispering spells that threatened to entangle the mind like a sharp sword. Like a beacon, it pierced the shifting mists, clearly revealing the deadly reefs beneath the waters and the true path. The fog retreated as if in fear before the Silmarils' radiance, and guided by the light, the ship safely passed through the deadly seas that had terrified countless sailors.
Then they entered the even more despairing Shadow Sea, where the waters took on an ominous, deep black, seemingly devouring all light. The sky was blanketed by thick, low-hanging leaden clouds, rendering even daylight dim as dusk. A suffocating oppression hung in the air, as if even sound were absorbed by the darkness. There was no wind, and a dead silence enveloped the ship, as if it were mired in sticky tar, unable to move. Even more terrifying, an invisible, icy force pervaded the surroundings, draining away life and hope, enough to drive even the bravest sailors into numbness and despair, ultimately consuming their lives in the still darkness.
Once again, the radiance of the Silmarils proved the only salvation. Their radiance not only illuminated the surrounding black waters but also formed a warm, resilient ring of light around the ship, effectively insulating it from the icy forces of the Shadow Sea that eroded life and will. Earendil felt as if the Silmarils' light burned, waging a silent, fierce struggle against the surrounding darkness. Wherever the radiance reached, the sticky resistance began to weaken. More importantly, the light seemed to resonate faintly with an unseen, greater presence in the distance, attracting a weak but persistent draft to the stilled ship. Earendil seized the opportunity, adjusted the sails, and caught this wind of hope. Sheltered and guided by the Silmarils' radiance, like an arrow piercing ink, the ship stubbornly, slowly but surely, sailed out of the darkness that swallowed even starlight.
When the ship finally broke through the last sticky barrier of the Shadow Sea, the sight before them made Earendil and Elwing hold their breath.
The sky suddenly opened, revealing a crystal-clear blue unlike anything seen before. The air was fresh and pure, carrying a strange fragrance that invigorated every breath. On the distant horizon, a coastline shrouded in a soft golden glow loomed, its majesty and sacredness beyond mortal imagination. Countless seabirds, gleaming white, soared around the ship, their melodious cries welcoming the envoys from afar. An indescribable sense of peace, joy, and belonging enveloped them, a moment of recompense for all their fatigue and hardship. They knew that after countless trials and tribulations, they had finally reached the fabled Aman, the blessed land where the Valar dwell.
The ship slowly approached a beautiful harbor that seemed to be built of pearls and white jade. As soon as the ship stopped, a man in silver armor, with a majestic demeanor and exuding majesty and glory appeared on the dock. He was the herald of Manwë, the powerful Maia Eonwë.
"O sailors from afar, Earendil, son of Tuor and Idril, and Elwing, daughter of Dior," Eönwë's voice boomed like a bell, clear and powerful, echoing through the quiet harbor. "I await you by the command of Manwë, High King of Arda. Your feat through Shadow and Magic, and the Silmarils you bear, are known to the Valar. Follow me to Valimar, and the Mighty Ones will hear your prayers."
Filled with awe and excitement, Earendil and Elwing followed Eönwë onto the sacred grounds of Aman. They were led through the city of Tuna, a city even more magnificent than Gondolin, and finally arrived at the meeting place of the Valar, the Ringed Hill in the heart of Valimar. Fourteen towering stone thrones were arranged in a circle, and upon them sat the Valar and the Vali, their forms shrouded in the radiance of their respective attributes. A mingled aura of majesty, mercy, wisdom, and power filled the air, making it almost impossible for mortals to gaze directly upon them.
Eärendil suppressed his inner shock and, under Manwë's sovereign gaze, took a step forward. He untied the Silmarils from his neck and held them aloft. In the sacred place of the Valar, the three Silmarils seemed to have returned to their true origins. Their light was more dazzling than ever before, illuminating the entire Ring Hill like three miniature suns and moons.
He clearly and earnestly stated the purpose of his long voyage and described the deep suffering that Middle-earth was enduring: the growing dark oppression of Morgoth, the sacrifices and struggles of the free people of Elves, Men, and Dwarves in the continuous wars, and the seemingly endless despair. His voice was filled with deep concern for his homeland and love for his kin: "...Great Lords of Arda! I, Earendil, have come to this sacred place, bearing the hopes of the two suffering peoples of Middle-earth, the Elves and Men. I have crossed the Sea of Death, locked in spell and shadow, and come to this sacred place. I beg for your mercy. Morgoth's power grows, and his shadow falls upon the land, swallowing up light and hope. My kin, the immortal Elves, the ephemeral but valiant Men, and our resilient Dwarf allies, have shed their blood under his tyranny, their homes destroyed, and their hopes shattered. We have fought hard, and the War of Tears has left its mark, but we have not been able to shake his foundations. Middle-earth alone can no longer withstand the coming, even greater, torrent of darkness."
He paused, raising the radiant Silmarils in his hand higher. "These three Silmarils, crystallized from Fëanor's soul and bearers of the flames of the Two Trees, guided me as I strayed from the path. Now I bring them back. They are not only tokens of my memory, but also the weeping and bloody prayers of the countless creatures of Middle-earth. On behalf of all who still struggle in darkness, I pray for the judgment and aid of the Valar, for the return of light, and for the complete end of Morgoth's dark reign. May your glory and power once again descend upon Middle-earth, cleansing it of its deep sin and suffering."
Eärendil's words echoed across the Ringed Hills, a tearful accusation and a heartfelt plea, presented before the Valar, along with the pure light of the Silmaril. He sent forth Middle-earth's strongest and clearest cry for help, for the fate of his two kinsmen. Manwë's gaze, as if piercing time and space, gazed upon the swirling darkness of the far north. The other Valar, too, fell into solemn contemplation, and the Valar's council was shrouded in a hush where the fate of the world was decided.
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