Seated all around a stone table, the atmosphere grew solemn. What, under other circumstances, might have been a gathering of old and long-lived friends, was now a council to decide the fate of Middle-earth.
"Well then… Círdan, what brings you here?" Saruman broke the silence, his voice laden with skepticism. "It is rare to see you outside of Lindon… rarer still to see you arrive in such haste."
The elder elf nodded slowly, drawing forth his own pipe. He lit the weed with a mechanical gesture, inhaled, and upon exhaling the smoke, revealed the gravity of his thoughts.
"I come with news…" he said calmly. "The Grey Havens are, in practice, closed."
A sepulchral silence swept through the hall. The expressions of those present—beings millennia old, tempered by countless trials—shattered in an instant. The blow was too great to conceal. Only the Eldens remained unmoved, not yet understanding the weight of what they had heard.
"What?" was all Gandalf managed to utter, incredulous.
"Closed?" repeated Elrond, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward with a gesture heavy with tension. "What do you mean by 'closed'?"
All eyes fixed on Círdan, awaiting his explanation. The news had fallen like lightning: had something happened in Lindon? An attack? Some catastrophe? No one had an answer.
"Exactly as I said," replied the shipwright after another slow draw. "Save for a few ships destined for particular cases… the incurable sick, the gravely wounded… the voyages have ceased. Elves can no longer sail to Lindon with the hope of departing for Valinor."
Elrond paled. His eyes, which rarely betrayed emotion, now shone with barely contained anxiety. "What happened? Are there enemies blocking the way? Servants of Sauron, corsairs from the South, some change in the waters?"
"Or perhaps the troubles… came from farther away?" Galadriel, until then silent, turned her gaze toward Miquella and the Eldens, a spark of suspicion in her eyes. Having glimpsed parts of the future, her words carried the weight of deduction.
"This is unheard of," said Saruman, raising his voice with a harsh tone. "How can Lindon close its voyages to Valinor? Have you tired of building ships, and now expect every elf to to make his own?"
The remark was direct, bordering on insult, though it was, in truth, only a reflection of his own dismay.
Círdan was unmoved. He exhaled another cloud of smoke, more as a pause for his listeners than for any personal pleasure.
"It was not my decision…" he said at last. "Not long ago, Lindon was busy, yes—but not as a port of departure… as a port of arrival."
The words hung in the air like thunder. Reactions were immediate: hardened faces, eyes searching one another for confirmation. Gandalf and Saruman were the most shaken: the last time a ship had come from Valinor, it had carried the Istari. A singular event, or so they had believed.
Even the Eldens, though they did not fully understand, could sense the magnitude of the announcement from the reactions around them. The silence at the table was not born of ignorance, but of solemn concern.
"Who came?" asked Gandalf, unable to restrain himself. He had come thinking this council would turn upon his journey with the dwarves, or the menace of Smaug… never had he imagined something of this scale.
"More elves," answered Círdan, a glimmer of nostalgia in his eyes. "Some who departed for Valinor centuries ago… and others born there. A few ships have arrived, all at once. But more may yet come."
The table fell mute.
"Lindon is no longer the empty city it was," the old shipwright continued. "The streets fill again, trade revives, workshops resound, the military barracks stir once more. I have left the regency in the hands of a trusted kin, while I devote myself to shipbuilding alongside the new craftsmen who have come."
He leaned back in his seat, letting the pipe rest between his fingers, while all struggled to grasp what they had just heard. The world had changed… and it had done so in silence, unnoticed until now.
"Why have they come?" pressed Saruman, gripping his staff with a rigid hand. "The situation in Middle-earth is well enough under control that Valinor need not send reinforcements." His tone brimmed with arrogance, though beneath it lay fear: that some of the newcomers had been sent to oversee him… or to replace him.
Círdan released a thin cloud of smoke before answering.
"I too believed all was calm… until I saw those ships full of elven warriors moor at my docks." His eyes seemed to gaze far beyond the chamber, as though reliving the moment. "And they did not merely disembark: they began to rouse the city, fortifying it as if Lindon were to become a bastion for an imminent war." The elder elf narrowed his eyes. "I told them I was building ships… but they are no longer vessels of passage to Valinor. They are warships ."
"Dark times are upon us," murmured Galadriel, gripping her gown with force, though her countenance remained unshaken.
Within, however, burned the certainty that what she had seen in her mirror grew ever more real. Worst of all… the escape she had once imagined for herself, a silent passage to Valinor before the collapse, seemed to vanish before her eyes.
"No one can return to Valinor now?" she finally asked. Her voice was serene, dignified, yet the shadow of worry was there.
"Any elf who can still bear arms must remain. One can no longer flee to Aman. This is no longer a war of Men alone; it is once again our battle, and we are bound to take part in it… this has been made clear to me. No one escapes his duty. It is not as before," confirmed Círdan.
Elrond and the others stiffened at the finality in his tone.
"Are there signs that Sauron has returned? Is the threat so dire that the Valar deemed such intervention necessary?" Gandalf cleared his throat, his gaze heavy.
"Sauron remains an enemy we must watch," replied Círdan, leaning forward. "But he is no longer the only one."
His eyes settled slowly on Miquella. The demigod, until then silent, remained still. Leda and Ansbach stiffened as they felt all gazes turn upon them.
"For there are also strangers come from far lands… is that not so, Prince Miquella?"
The silence weighed like stone. Every eye fixed on the divine child: some suspicious, others probing, and a few merely curious.
Miquella tilted his head, feigning innocence.
"The truth is… I don't know what you mean." His tone was soft, almost naïve. "Yes, I and my followers have come to Middle-earth, and I have sensed others… from our homeland. But I am not aware that the situation has escalated to the level you suggest."
"Though the waters seem calm, each day they grow more troubled." Círdan did not waver. His voice remained steady, free of judgment or reproach. "The Eldens, as you call yourselves, have long been appearing in Middle-earth. Drop by drop, grain by grain, tilting the balance. And not all who have come are allies. Some are foes… and others, allies of our foes."
Miquella's heart skipped a beat. He tapped the table softly with his finger, the sound echoing like a drum.
"Who has arrived?" he asked, his calm only barely contained.
He already knew one of his "sisters" had contacted the Valar, but there was still much he did not know.
"I do not know… not even the elves of Valinor know it fully," confessed Círdan, lowering his gaze. "Were they certain, they would already have launched skirmishes against the foe, rather than merely fortifying Lindon. All we know is that great forces have come to the East. They have not yet declared themselves friend or foe—only because they are gathering power. And when they move… we fear it will not be small."
"You mean that, beyond Sauron, we must now fear another enemy greater still?" Saruman interjected, his eyes fixed on Miquella. In his mind, all those "foreigners" Círdan named were to be judged with the same severity. The mere thought of his order being unsettled soured his mood.
"Yes," Círdan answered calmly. "But the Eldens here present must not be seen as enemies… at least not yet." He set aside his pipe, holding it between his hands before adding: "Moreover, a message came from Valinor: the Elden prince is expected to become an ally of the elves in this struggle."
"They expect my help?" Miquella tilted his head, intrigued.
"Indeed." Círdan's voice was firm, stripped of ornament. "Just as new enemies arrive, new allies are awaited. And already there are those who believe that you, at the very least, may be such an ally… or at worst, a neutral force. In these times, even neutrality is a reprieve. What matters is that you are not an enemy. Every hand is scarce, and each one that joins may tip the scales."
"But I am but a fallen prince with a handful of followers. Yes, I have certain gifts… but to call me a 'force' in Middle-earth seems hasty, does it not?" The young ex-prince lowered his eyes, shrugging lightly.
Círdan studied him in silence, then narrowed his gaze.
"That will not remain so forever, will it?" he said gravely. "I am charged to let you know that Lindon seeks friendly ties with the nascent Elden forces willing to ally themselves with Middle-earth—yours among them. There are some who firmly believe you will not remain small for long… that you will rise high."
Miquella remained silent. The old elf's words rang true, though he would not admit it aloud. With the power of his ring and the loyalty of his followers, he knew that, given time and will, he could rebuild an empire even here in this strange land. What unsettled him was realizing that others also knew… and watched.
"I do not wish to make enemies," he said at last, nodding lightly. "I accept Lindon's greetings."
After that, he spoke no further. He was trapped in his own thoughts: the situation had grown so dark and mysterious that even he, calm as he was, began to feel the weight of uncertainty.
The chamber remained silent. Eyes crossed, minds calculated, each measuring the new balance forming before them.
Saruman snorted, striving to break the tension.
"So… new forces come to Middle-earth, Valinor sends reinforcements… and we must ready ourselves for another great war against enemies we do not even know." His voice was tinged with disbelief, though it was more a wish that matters were exaggerated than any real conviction. The strain on his face betrayed him. He too, like Gandalf, had felt the chains of his power slacken as the times began to change.
It was then that a voice rang from the stairway:
"Things are not as calm as you wish to believe. Turmoil has long been stirring in Middle-earth."
Every gaze turned to the entrance. There descended an elf of golden hair, radiating a heroic aura. He bore light armor, and at his side rested a sword whose very presence commanded respect.
"Glorfindel!" exclaimed those who knew him at once.
The newcomer inclined his head in respect.
"Greetings to all. It is a pleasure to meet old friends once more… and to behold some new faces." His eyes lingered for a moment on Miquella, pausing with a hard-to-read interest.
Círdan rose from his seat and walked toward him. After a brief greeting, he drew from his robes a small leather pouch and handed it to him in silence. Then both sat side by side at the table.
"You have left your retreat?" Elrond frowned, visibly surprised.
"Yes. Círdan has already said it: every elf still able to wield a blade must return to duty. Even I." Glorfindel nodded with solemnity