-General-
Curiosity regarding Ilarion and Galadriel did nothing but grow; every tale they offered about those Undying Lands filled Thingol's Elves with longing. Like the Noldor and the Vanyar, the Elves of Beleriand—who in the Quenya tongue, the language spoken by all Noldor, would be called Sindar—were curious and lovers of knowledge. Thus, it was not surprising that, after a time, both branches of Elves managed to communicate without difficulty.
Such was their gift: they learned new tongues with speed, although, naturally, they could not compare to Fëanor, who by merely listening for a few seconds was capable of reproducing a language with absolute perfection.
It was thus that, on their path, they encountered Amrod and Amras, who, upon seeing the Elves of Beleriand, named them Moriquendi: the Dark Elves, those who were never graced by the light of the Trees of Aman.
The term was received with a certain grace, unlike Eglath, which to them seemed more vulgar and derogatory, for it made them feel inferior before their distant brethren. It was fortunate that the Sindar did not perceive that disdain in the eyes of Ilarion's brothers, for had they done so, everything would have become complicated.
While Ilarion and his kin resumed their path, unaware that other eyes were already watching Fingolfin's hosts with attention, another event began to take shape. For while the eighth son of Fëanor guided the Elves of the Forest of Doriath, new figures approached with caution.
They were different from those Ilarion had met. Their skin was not so pale nor their hair platinum; they resembled more the inhabitants of the coasts: slightly tanned skin, grey hair, and a taller, more robust build, forged by the hard voyages of the sea. It was not difficult to imagine Fingolfin's surprise when those Elves presented themselves before him.
They called themselves the Mariners of Círdan and inhabited the Falas, a territory located extremely close to where the Noldor had landed. Their homes were hidden among the cliffs that rose like walls along the seashore; hence their ports were not seen by the Noldor upon arriving at the nearby coasts.
At first, the Noldor remained cautious, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Any movement revealing hostility would be answered with the edge of steel. It was not out of rudeness, but mistrust: they knew nothing of the inhabitants of Middle-earth, even if they were of their own race. Who could guarantee that they had not knelt before the Dark Lord? Perhaps, had they done so, they would be more cunning than those beasts that attacked them without provocation.
But all those conjectures were nothing but the fruit of paranoia and the constant state of alert before the unknown.
None of that seemed to disquiet Círdan's Elves more than necessary. There were only four of them, and they were walking behind Fingolfin when they were surrounded by the sons of Finarfin: Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor. Like the rest of their people, they kept their hands on their sheaths, ready to draw steel if necessary.
Once they reached his makeshift gate, raised from sailcloth, Fingolfin turned and observed them closely. While they bore a resemblance to the Teleri, these Mariners of Círdan did not possess the radiance of those who had dwelt beneath the light of the Holy Trees.
"Forgive us if the atmosphere is tense," began Fingolfin. "But recently, upon our arrival, dark creatures attacked us. I hope you understand that we must remain cautious."
With a slight smile, he placed a hand upon his chest and made a bow both dignified and noble.
"I am named Fingolfin, son of Finwë, Prince of the Noldor."
Why not introduce himself as King?
Had Fëanor abandoned him in the Helcaraxë, he would not have hesitated to take for himself the title of King of the Noldor. But now that he had reached an understanding with his half-brother, he decided to leave such a title to his father's firstborn. After all, it was what belonged to him, and Fingolfin did not wish to sow discord in a moment when they needed to remain united.
Círdan's Elves knew the Noldor, especially Finwë, for at one time they lived together as a single people. Thus, once their origin was confirmed, the caution rising within them began to dissipate.
"It is an honor to meet the son of His Majesty Finwë," said one of Círdan's mariners, looking around. "If it is not too presumptuous of me... is King Finwë not among you? It would please us to invite him to visit our home; our lord, Círdan, would undoubtedly be overjoyed to reunite with old friends."
And indeed, just as the mariner had said, before departing to Valinor under the guidance of the Valar, Finwë, Elwë, Olwë, Ingwë, Círdan, and others had forged a deep friendship. Many times, under the dark and starry sky, they laughed and sang together, for in those days they did not yet carry the weight of being kings of their peoples. They were young—barely counting ages around twenty or thirty years—and lived together as good friends.
It was a pity when destiny forced them to assume the roles ordained for them, separating them little by little. However, that friendship never faded; witness to this was the union of Finarfin with Olwë's daughter, a bond born of those ancient ties.
At the mention of Finwë, the air grew cold. Círdan's Elves felt it immediately; something was wrong. And, just as they feared, Fingolfin's next words left them horror-struck and in disbelief.
"My father, Finwë... was slain."
...
Elsewhere, what befell Fingolfin and Ilarion was unknown to Fëanor, who had his own problems. For, before leaving the Firth of Drengist, where the mountains surrounded them like stone giants, they met a race they did not recognize.
In Cirith Ninniach, shortly before leaving the pass, small figures gathered in the way. Their armor, though of rough craftsmanship, to Fëanor's eyes far surpassed that of other Elven peoples of Valinor.
The distance closed enough for both peoples to observe each other in silence. Caution rose between them like lava beneath the crust of a volcano: tense hands already resting on the hilts of swords and axes, waiting only for the gesture to unleash the clash.
"Manâd ai? Edhel Doriathô, ud Cîrdanô? Kathân!" shouted one of the small figures.
Fëanor furrowed his brow. His mind, ever alert, seized those strange words and, with the grace Eru had granted him at birth, grasped their meaning almost immediately.
"Who are you? Elves of Doriath or of Círdan? Speak!"
He repeated the words in the newly learned tongue, savoring its harshness. A crude language, he thought, vulgar and without refinement.
He advanced without hesitation toward the Dwarves. He did not fear them; he was Fëanor, son of Finwë, King of the Noldor, and his sword would suffice to dispatch them if he so desired. But the bodies of Morgoth's servants, slain at their feet, gave him a different reason to approach: those beings were also enemies of the servants of Morgoth.
A few steps from them, he raised his voice in his own tongue:
"I am Fëanor, son of Finwë, King of the Noldor. Who are you?"
Astonishment rippled through the Dwarves upon hearing their tongue pronounced by Elven lips. They looked at one another, murmuring in low voices, until the rumor ceased abruptly.
Then, a figure advanced from the rear. He was leaner than the rest, though marked by the hardness of stone and time. His blackish beard, streaked with silver, fell to his belly like a symbol of his age.
At every step, the Dwarves bowed their heads with respect. When he reached the front, he stopped before Fëanor and observed him with a gaze as firm and proud as that of the son of Finwë.
"I am Durin, King of the Dwarves," he said, "and this is my people."
**
Support me in "ptreon.com/Mrnevercry"