Child of Kings by singing-sorrowless  

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Cirdan

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The countless stars of heaven’s field

were mirrored in his shining shield.

Círdan—

Círdan pitied the boy the moment he saw him, even before any news came. The look on Lalwen’s face was enough to know that something was wrong, that he’d need to invite another lost little one into the havens.

He looked very young and very small, just old enough to walk beside Lalwen on the journey instead of being carried. But the expression on his face was far too old for one so little.

“Círdan,” Lalwen spoke. “Considering your long friendship with the elves of Hithlum and Mithrim and the tentative situation in the north of Beleriand, High King Fingon of the Noldor humbly asks that his son be taken into your care. He believes this will be safer for him.”

Tentative was a rather diplomatic way of putting it.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied. “And what of the child’s mother?”

“The Lady Galadwen is a warrior like her husband, and a huntress of the enemy’s creatures. With the recent losses…the king cannot afford to send her away.”

“Oh. Of course,” Círdan said. “I am sorry. What is your name, little one?”

“Rodnor,” the child answered softly. The Sindarin form, not his mother-tongue.

“Well, Rodnor,” Círdan asked, “would you like to come play with my grandchildren? They’re very kind, and the youngest ones are about your age.”

The boy looked at Lalwen, as if for approval, then nodded slowly.

In a few days, Círdan stood with Rodnor, watching Lalwen depart after he had said his goodbyes. He did not cry, or seek the comfort that Círdan was so willing to try to bestow. That worried him.

For two weeks, he tried to reach out to Rodnor to comfort him, to little avail. The boy buried himself in books, he ate, he slept, he listened to Círdan and did what he was told. But when the other children played, he sat alone, staring out to sea.

There was nothing for it but to take him out sailing. Círdan thought he detected a hint of a smile on Rodnor’s face when he suggested it. He stocked his small sailboat with a picnic meal and made up a little nest of blankets in case the boy grew tired.

As they set out in the afternoon, Rodnor sat silently, close to the water, watching the ripples in the boat’s wake. He seemed to enjoy being out on the ocean, but Círdan’s efforts were just as vain here as they were on shore.

After their picnic dinner, Rodnor curled up on the deck in the bed Círdan had made. He tucked the boy in and set sail back to the Havens as night began to fall. But as they neared the harbor, he heard soft sniffling sounds coming from the blankets.

Círdan lashed the sails in place and rushed over to Rodnor, afraid the little one had hurt himself somehow.

“Rodnor, what is it?” he asked softly.

The boy sat up, brushing away the tears. His wispy silver hair fell wildly around his shoulders, shining in the twilight.

“I can’t go to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Círdan said, “we’re nearly back to the harbor.”

“I don’t want to go back to the harbor. I want to go home,” he sobbed.

“Oh, dear one. Of course you do.” Círdan reached out, tentatively. “Come here.”

Rodnor leaned closer, letting Círdan scoop him up, all wrapped in blankets.

“Shh,” he said, carrying him on one hip, “It will be alright. You will see your home again, soon.”

“I don’t want to go back to the harbor,” Rodnor repeated.

“Shall we stay out here a while longer, and watch the stars come out?”

A tiny nod, through the tears.

“Alright. Let’s do that.” He set Rodnor down so he could lower the sails, then sat at the stern of the boat, Rodnor clambering into his lap. Círdan held him as he cried, stroking his silver hair and pointing out constellations in a whispered voice.

“Father says the sickle in the north means hope,” Rodnor added after a while, sniffling. “I love watching the stars.”

“The sickle does mean hope. That’s why it’s one of the brightest constellations. As long as you can see it, you know you are not alone.”

“I know. But I miss home. I miss my name.”

“You don’t have to tell me your Quenya name. But you can if you wish. I will not tell King Thingol.”

“Artanáro,” he said quietly. A prettier name, Círdan admitted, but very Noldorin.

“It’s a good name,” he said. “I’m sorry that it isn’t safe to call you by it, for now. But I have an idea, for a new name for you. You can tell me whether you like it or not.”

“Alright.” He wiped his nose on one sleeve, sitting up straighter.

“I think, little one, that you shine less like the fire, and more like a star over the sea. And you have starlight hair, like your mother and like us Sindar. I think we should call you Gil-Galad.” Star of radiance. It almost matched his mother’s name.

The boy smiled up at Círdan, faintly, then more brightly. Gil-Galad was a fitting name. And it would keep him safe. He would make sure of that.