You shouldn’t let them lead you. They are not us and will never be us.
Naswë remembers each and every conversation he shared with Finwë, back in the days of the Lake, back when he was arguing against leaving with Morwë and Nurwë. He remembers his warnings and he remembers that his younger self would have tilted his shin up and said: I told you so.
Everything changes, though. The world, the people - and Finwë, who isn’t actually there to argue with anymore.
There was a Sun nowaday, a coarse reminder of the Light of the Trees that Naswë had never loved as much as the stars. The old elf liked the nights far better, and that was why the newly named Celegorm usually gave him all the night shifts when it came to guarding the fëanorian encampement at Lake Mithrim.
There was a foul feel in the air, something like a smell, something that reeked like the Dark Rider. Something that, oddly, reminded Naswë of old Cuivienen and the great war that had toppled down mountains.
And then there were the birds, and to those who would listen to them, there was the puzzling designs of Manwë.
Unlike Fëanor, Naswë hadn’t believed the Valar to be malicious; they were merely not elves, and how hard was it to understand that they couldn’t be expected to be what the elves needed them to be? That the Valar, being entirely different creatures in nature and age and personnality, just weren’t suited?
Your sister will come ashore, a bird had said, a great white owl.
How would you know of this? the tatya had asked, for the animals were rarely aware of anything that went farther than their own territories.
I listened to the Great Wind. His wings carried this message for you.
Ever puzzling Manwë. Why would he bother? Naswë was no Fingon. He didn’t pray to the Valar, even to Oromë who used to partake in the ceremonies of the Faith. When Fëanor had talked of leaving, Naswë had just thought finally and taken some belongings and left. Was it, somehow, a reward for trying to lead his nephew through the Helcaraxë? His plans had failed in the end. The Noldor, Fëanor had seen, weren’t the people of Formenos, who knew snow and hardship, and they were too numerous for the meager lands of Araman to support. Ultimatly they had angled south, and the first maps of the great north draw with Naswë’s Sarati had served (ironically) for the false king Fingolfin instead.
But if his sister was here, if this was true… then Naswë would gladly make the sacrifices of old. He was no servant of Manwë and would not bear to owe him anything.
Celegorm was his liege, but Celegorm was Naswë grand-nephew; Naswë had taught him the languages of birds and beasts, seated in the high grasses of a meadow with Oromë, and planted into his skin the needles that etched his union with the Faith. Naswë just had to show up by his nephew’s anarchic desk and tell him that he would be scouting south, toward the Falas, and Celegorm had merely nodded as he would nod if told that it was going to rain.
He went South through the sindar-populated Nevrast, crossed the mountains and plains and reached the beautiful coasts of the South. The lands were warmer than misty Hithlum, the people slowly trickling back to the countryside now that the it was freed of orcs. These lands Naswë knew somewhat well: Celegorm’s cavalery had freed them, back when Fëanor landed and his troops swept Morgoth’s orcs away like a weave so great even the Spirit of Fire’s death hadn’t allowed them to come back. Travelling alone was still unsafe, but at least it could be attempted.
Naswë reached Brithombar two daws before Miriel’s boat. Meeting old Nowë, now called Cirdan, was as embarassing as it had been the first time: Nowë had hoped eagerly to go West while Naswë had despised the idea; and now they were here, the Light of the Tree shining in Naswë’s eyes while Cirdan’s would be forever deprived of them.
“I have been told someone dear to me will arrive. Has arrived. Did she?”
He didn’t elaborate. Cirdan did not know him well, and Naswë used to have a mate and a son; he could be waiting for his wife or his sister or even his son, who had disappeared during the March.
“The gulls speak of a ship coming from the West.”
He did, and when the ship arrived, he scanned the crowd for her face; it was her, and at the same time not her, with hair of a changed color and a demeanor that tried not to be seen; so when Cirden looked back at Naswë, he shrugged and left. If Miriel didn’t want to be recognized, he wouldn’t force her to come out.
He walked away from the port and beconed one of the many gulls that circled Brithombar at all time. He gave the bird an old ribbon, worn so thin that the embroideries where barely visible anymore, and told the animal to carry it to a certain woman.
Then, he sat under a great tree and waited.
