and the waters prevailed by StormsBreadth  

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but the sea is not full

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They spend a few weeks in the New Havens, as spring slips into a balmy summer. The people here are from a variety of backgrounds, and here for a variety of reasons. Some came from here and wanted to return home. For others, rebuilding the ruins is a show of defiance. Still others seem disaffected by the war and sceptical of traditional governance, and are seeking an alternative way to organise society. A few simply followed their friends. 

Many of them had some connection to the Havens before they were destroyed the first time. Over their first few days, Celebrimbor realises he recognises some of them. A woman who still wears the pearl earrings her partner commissioned from him as a betrothal gift. A father whose son used to play with Eärendil. A potter, with whom he once traded jewels for plates. He had thought, after the Third Kinslaying, that the people here would look at him and see only his father’s face, but it isn’t true. They see a smith, Idril’s cousin, friend and aide of the young High King. 

Not so young now. But if the people here don’t want to follow Gil-galad’s banner, nor, it seems, do they have a particular quarrel with him. They have simply chosen to make their camp here, on the flooded delta of the Sirion, among the shifting landscapes and the tides. Celebrimbor can respect that. 

The waters, it seems, cannot. 

Spending more than a few nights in one place gives them a chance to take more measurements and do a deeper analysis of the land surrounding the settlement and the ways that it’s changing over time. Being able to speak with people who’ve been living on the land for some time already is helpful, as they’re able to get a sense of change over time. Eluduinen works with a woman called Tatharen, who has been watching the sands since she arrived almost a year ago. She walks them around the settlement at low tide, when the water only laps at their toes in the lowest parts, and shows them an array of high tide marks. 

They’re getting higher. 

Tatharwen takes them out around the river delta, showing them islands and describing how they’ve changed over time. In an attempt to be useful, Celebrimbor sketches the islands they see, rough diagrams that show their shape and elevation. The soil is slowly getting washed into the water, leaving behind only sand or, in some cases, nothing, the dips and waves of the landscape slowly smoothing out into a flat landscape that the water can rush over. 

One evening, while Celebrimbor is sitting on a rooftop and watching the sun start to fade towards the horizon, Eluduinen comes and sits beside him. 

'Can you check these figures for me?' she asks. ‘I need to know if… I need to know if you see what I’m seeing.’

Celebrimbor takes the piece of paper she offers, and looks it over. They're calculations, tracking Tilion's course across the sky and the strange pull it exerts over the waters of Middle-earth, the high and low tides over time, Tatharen’s observations supplemented by Eluduinen’s own. Celebrimbor follows her numbers in his own head with a growing feeling of dread, then pulls out a pencil to scrawl out his own equations. 

Her maths is correct, its conclusion stark. Unavoidable.

'I had worries, all the way back in Thargelion. That far inland, the water shouldn't have any salt in it, and the currents – it only makes sense if the water’s flowing in from somewhere.’ 

Celebrimbor nods again. To the west, the waves slosh against the base of the building. In his mind's eye, Celebrimbor sees them rising higher, higher, until the buildings here are completely swallowed up, sunk beneath the waves, taking all the memories with them. The riverbank where Celebrimbor embraced Idril for the first time in hundreds of years has already fallen into the river, as has the quayside where he watched Gil-galad and Eärendil run through the streets together. Soon the buildings will be gone too, the waves creeping higher until they swallow the courtyard where Elwing and Earendil were married, where he has been welcomed these past weeks by the people who live here.

Did the Valar know this would happen, he wonders, when they took the land itself for their weapon. Was it part of their plan all along? 

Thinking about it makes Celebrimbor feel slightly sick. This small community have built so much from so little. The houses are decorated with paintings of flowers and the gardens and vegetable patches burst with life from the love of their caretakers. In his mind’s eye he sees it, underwater, drowned and lifeless as it had been after the Third Kinslaying. 

He looks down at Eluduinen's figures again. ‘At the current rate of sinking, it should be a few years before this place is fully underwater.’ 

‘I think so. But they’ll be going higher and higher up, and that’s assuming that nothing dramatic happens between now and then. If there's another earthquake, or the cliffs fall in again, it could be less time.'

‘And further north?’ 

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I would guess that the mountainous regions and highlands have more time, but it’s difficult to say. The banks of the Sirion are nonexistent down here, and there are low-lying regions to the north that might be flooded already. But… I think most of it will be drowned within the next decade.’

Celebrimbor nods. He’s not a geographer, but he’s come to trust Eluduinen’s intuition. And her sums. 

‘We need to tell them.’

They don’t summon the whole settlement at once. There are only a hundred or so people here, but that’s still more than can comfortably fit in the upper room they’ve been occupying. Celebrimbor invites Leicheg, as the settlement’s spokesperson, along with Tatharen and a few others. They all listen in stony silence as Eluduinen explains her observations. 

Although they haven’t spoken about it explicitly, from the expressions on their faces, Celebrimbor doesn’t think her conclusions come as a surprise. When she finishes, there’s a long pause, before Leicheg lets out a long breath. 

‘It seems you were right, Tatharen,’ he says. ‘But ai, I hoped you weren’t.’

‘It’s hard to lose your home,’ Eluduinen says. ‘Harder still to lose it twice over.’ 

Leicheg holds a hand to his eyes from a moment, shoulders bent in grief even as he hides his face. When he straightens again, there’s a spark in his eyes as he looks, not at Eluduinen, but directly at Celebrimbor.

‘What would you have us do, then, Noldo?’ he asks. ‘Are we to come to Gil-galad’s heels as a well trained flock of sheep?’

‘Leicheg!’ Tatharen explains, grimacing apologetically at Celebrimbor, who shakes his head. Anger, Celebrimbor knows, is a common response to grief. He resists the urge to match it, and speaks with a measured tone. 

‘You can do whatever you want. We were sent to survey the lands of Beleriand, and we’re sharing our findings. The information is yours to do with as you wish. But you might want to think about leaving.’

‘Not all the elves of Beleriand who went east have joined Gil-galad’s cause,’ Eluduinen adds. ‘Some of our people have gone further east, to join the elves of Eriador and beyond. Some went south, to form a new city. Edhellond, they called it. I imagine they could use some help from those who know how to build a safe haven.’

Celebrimbor thinks it’s a nice touch, specifying ‘our people’. Leicheg doesn’t apologise, but the anger fades from his eyes, replaced again with that heavy sorrow. 

‘I need to speak with my people,’ he says, readying himself to leave. ‘We have much to consider.’ He sweeps out of the room, swiftly followed by the others, though Tatharen hesitates on the threshold. 

‘I’m sorry. It’s… As you know, it’s not like there weren’t signs. But most people have been looking away from them.’ 

Celebrimbor nods. ‘Go and make your decisions.’ 

She nods, and hurries after Leicheg, leaving the group sent by Gil-galad alone in the room once again. 

'So what of us?' Ribinvir asks. 'Do we turn around, call it a loss, go back to the High King?' 

'I don't think it's all a loss,' Eluduinen says, pointing at Thargelion on her rough sketched map. 'If the Gelion continues to flow the way it is, I think there's a good chance the rest of Thargelion will survive – the waters will drain into the river. The sea, eventually. But yes, most of it... I don't think that it will be here in a few years time. These lands will be Ulmo's, soon enough.' 

‘We should all return,’ Taerfinios says, as though this were the obvious conclusion. ‘There’s nothing in the West.’ 

‘We don’t know that,’ Heledholf replies, obstinate. 

‘We’ve completed the task the King set us, we’ve discovered that Beleriand is a loss. We need to help these people get to safety and go home. There’s no point to continuing West when we know that it’s all going to be underwater soon!’ 

All of Beleriand, underwater. All the places that Celebrimbor has lived, and fought, and loved since he arrived. The places where his loved ones fell. He thinks, briefly, of Nargothrond, her shining halls, wrecked and broken by Glaurung’s assault. In his mind’s eye, he sees them sinking, filling slowly with water. 

A sense of deep wrongness fills him, at the thought of simply letting those places and people slip by, unremarked. 

‘That’s exactly why we should continue west,’ he says. The group startle, and look round at him. In truth, he’s surprised himself with how strongly he feels about it. It’s that old pull, the one he hasn’t felt in a long time, to embark on a project and see where it leads him. ‘I would want to see these lands once more. To mark their passing.’

‘It would mean much for me to see Nargothrond once again,’ Ribinvir says, his voice a steady rumble. 

‘And I Gondolin!’ Heledholf jumps in. 

Taerfinios is going red in the face. Celebrimbor holds a hand up. ‘We don’t all have to continue. I think it would be best if some of us returned, or remained for a time with the people here. But for those of us who would press on… I think we should.’ 

In the end, it’s Celebrimbor, Ribinvir and Heledholf who decide to press on. Leicheg comes to speak with them again a few days later, to tell them that the people of the New Havens will be making their way to Edhellond gradually, over the next few years. Eluduinen and Damlann decide to stay with them, while Taerfinios and Losselloth return directly to Gil-galad. A few elves will be leaving the New Havens with them, an advance guard ahead of the main exodus.

They have a party, the night before they depart. Celebrimbor hadn’t realised that they were that popular, but the hosts have prepared a feast and people line up to give them parting gifts. The richest of these is a proper boat that they can ride up to Nargothrond, replacing their rudimentary coracles, but individuals come up to give them sea buckthorn wine, pots of jam, sea grass bracelets. Eluduinen gravely presents Celebrimbor with her notebook. When he flips through, he finds not just her water observations, but a hundred sketches of birds, with notes on their habitats and calls. 

They gather in the warm night, back in the courtyard of Elwing’s home. They eat roast fish and birds loaded up with sweet sauce and summer fruits, and the musicians among them pull out their instruments as soon as they’ve done eating. Celebrimbor takes turns spinning around the courtyard with whoever asks him: Eluduinen and Losselloth, Serniel and Alwedhen. As one song ends, and before another begins, he glances over to the musicians, and catches the gleam of Damlann’s eye in the firelight. He smiles, friendly, and gives him a nod. 

To his surprise, Damlann doesn’t just nod back, but puts his drum down and comes over. Like many Sindar, he wears his hair loose by preference, and he pushes a strand of it out of his face before he speaks.

‘Do you have a partner for the next dance? They can do without me for this one.’ 

‘I do now, I think,’ Celebrimbor replies, holding out his hands. Damlann smiles, and takes them.

He’s a good dancer. Not ostentatious, but graceful, with the sense of rhythm often found in musicians. When the music builds to the climax that could result in a lift, he catches Celebrimbor’s eye again and raises an eyebrow, challenging. 

Celebrimbor is not, himself, much of a dancer. But he is strong, and if the battlefield has taught him anything it is how to anticipate the moves of another. He narrows his eyes, and gives a tiny nod – and that’s all Damlann needs to launch himself at Celebrimbor, trusting that Celebrimbor will catch him. 

He does. He catches Damlann effortlessly, lifting him up almost above his head, his hands on Damlann’s sides the only line of contact to the ground. For a second, they hang together, suspended in a moment of trust, before the next beat in the music plays and Celebrimbor brings him back down to the ground. 

Afterwards, when the musicians have called an end to the dancing and only a couple of instrumentalists remain idly playing, Celebrimbor finds Damlann again. He’s sitting near the edge of the gathering, long fingers holding a half-full cup of their sea buckthorn wine. He shuffles over as Celebrimbor approaches, making room for him on the bench, which Celebrimbor takes. Their legs touch. 

They sit in silence for a moment. Night has properly fallen now, a warm summer night full of stars and the scent of flowers. A nightjar lands in a nearby tree with a commotion of branches and feathers, sounding its strange vibrato cry into the night.

‘Why did you come on this mission?’ Celebrimbor asks, eventually. 

Damlann smiles wryly into his cup. ‘Why did you?’ 

‘The High King asked me,’ Celebrimbor replies without hesitating. 

‘He asked me too.’

The words could be telling Celebrimbor to mind his own business. But Damlann is looking at him over the rim of his wine glass, his ears are attentive, and Celebrimbor thinks it might just be an invitation. Tell me your secrets, if you want to know mine. 

Not that Celebrimbor’s secrets are worth much. 

‘I grew up here, even if I was born on the other side of the sea. I know the land fairly well.’ He hesitates a second, then: ‘I think I needed to see it again.’ 

Damlann nods. ‘I would have liked to see Nargothrond.’

‘Didn’t you?’ There had been trade between Doriath and Nargothrond once.

‘No. Never had a good enough reason. My family… even though King Felagund was kin to King Thingol, my family did not trust the Noldor, they did not want me to go.’ He smiles, lets out a breath. ‘Especially after they realised I wanted to learn smithing.’

Over their journey, Celebrimbor has seen Damlann draw, paint, weave willow into the shell of a boat and stitch patterns into the tunic he was mending. And a singer and a dancer as well. He’s like a magpie, collecting bits of as many crafts as possible rather than specialising in one.

‘What of now?’ Celebrimbor asks. ‘You’re travelling with a lot of Noldor.’ 

The smile twists again into something more like a grimace. ‘My mother died in the Second Kinslaying, proving her point, I suppose. My father in the War of Wrath. Almost a decade ago, now.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘It’s not your fault.’

Celebrimbor opens his mouth to say something, the automatic dismissal of what Damlann is saying. But he closes it again after a moment. Damlann’s comment might equally have been an automatic dismissal, but with the weight of both their families between them, Celebrimbor thinks it might have been more. So he takes it, lets it pass. 

‘What of you, then?’ he asks, rather than delve deeper into that line of thought. 

‘I learnt silversmithing the lathrim way. We use lost wax techniques, mostly. They’re good for creating organic shapes.’ 

‘Your earrings!’ Celebrimbor exclaims. ‘Did you make them yourself?’ 

Damlann seems startled, distracted from his train of thought, but he smiles under Celebrimbor’s enthusiasm, tucking his hair behind his ear to better show the delicate leaves. ‘Yes. I didn’t stick at it all that long, only enough to master the basics and make some pieces I wanted. I’m good with my hands, though, and I’ve tried a lot of crafts in my time. The High King thought I might be of use.’

‘I’ve been glad to have you. You certainly have many skills,’ Celebrimbor replies, and it’s the truth. Damlann smiles, meeting his eyes again. 

‘I’m easily distracted by new and exciting things,’ he says, holding Celebrimbor’s gaze for a second longer than he has to. ‘Speaking of which –‘ he pulls something out of his pocket, holding it out to Celebrimbor, who takes it. ‘I’m of more use here than going to Nargothrond. But will you draw it for me?’ 

Celebrimbor looks down at the package he’s been handed, and recognises Damlann’s watercolour set. He swallows. 

‘I’ll do my best.’

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Chapter End Notes

Title from Ecclesiastes 1:7