#man i should be asleep its 2 in rhe morning dgfdfd

[galadhremmin]

glim maewion

The shrill cry of a true gull can cause any of them to long for what lies beyond the great Sea without warning, for that strange country hidden even before the world changed forever; this they know. This is why they try to avoid the shoreline, those who wish to stay here, little though there seems to be for them to stay for, here where so much remains unfinished, inchoate, nothing truly complete or unmarred. This is why Círdan, in his long penance for some offence already lost to the slow crawl of time, knows no relief; this is why he has long stopped his ears with yellow beeswax, though he still sings through his grizzled beard while he works, an unidentifiable ancient little tune for no one in particular. He will not hear his own voice again until the last grey ship has left his weathered hands, until history ends for all of Eldalië and he is freed from his shallow grey harbor to drift out into the ocean’s vast blue embrace. 

This is why the Singers of the Shore sing strange, overlapping songs, near-discordant, deaf to one another; though they row to the same rhythm, perfectly attuned; though they dance to the same song vibrating upwards through beaten wood beneath the soles of their bare feet, slapping the ship’s deck in tandem. When they wish for company beyond touch osanwë is the only way left for them in truth, unless one is ready to leave; and in this old haven strict boundaries between self and other have slowly eroded to a degree those not so close to the ever-changing Sea find disconcerting. Visitors to these strange cities tend to prefer Hwerme, an old sign-language, fallen mostly out of use with the advent of the palantír; thought-up when it was hard even to reach one’s allies on the other hill, separated usually by vast swathes of screaming, trumpetting armies on the run, though sharp sight might yet see the arms of a friend speaking. 

The call to come home to the land beyond the world is shrill, and full of sorrow, with an edge of impatience to it; this they know. Some have wondered why such a vulgar beast should be the one to announce irresolvable longing to an immortal heart, if not set it ablaze itself. This mean, rude bird, fighting and squabbling on the sand, living often on half-spoiled, stolen fish, so often their sole message from otherwise silent Gods. They wonder, and do not know; though some suppose it is simply that old Ulmo speaks through their yellow beaks. Picking diminutive form as he likes to do when he fears frightening his disciples too greatly to be of use after, spreading himself thin until one might look him in any orange-ringed, cold grey eye. They do not wonder at there being hundreds of birds in the air at once, not one of them speaking with exactly the same voice; for are there not hundreds of waves emerging and dissolving all the time in the Sea, all and none of them the shape of their Lord?

But Ulmo does not speak through the birds. Ulmo does not speak through the birds, but to them; quite the other way around. If discordant song buries sharp hooks deep in tender elvish hearts, it is through familiarity, not novelty; through sorrow, not promised joy in land so far unseen. If the birds of the shore are a vulgar, squabbling bunch; well, might not the same be said for many of their own forebears, once one separates them from the dazzle of song? If there is an edge of impatience to their incessant, insistent announcement, there is also in their voices a simple, raw pain, unblemished by beauty; no nightingale promise of paradise lost before most of those who remain were born is what draws a heart away from home, but a voice like the cry of a soldier rent open on the battlefield, bleeding out his last alone. 

The Sea is a net, the sky a hook, drawing them all in; hesitant Nandor and unwilling Avari, a sorrowful Noldo and his still vengeful King. A low conch-note sounds over the great water every time a lone fëa recalcitrant or simply afraid refuses Mandos’ heavy, Dooming call, saying; here you may stay and leave everything unfinished, unjudged; here you may dwell safely until the end of time, at a remove from any Gods other than I, both dark and light, away from any who would change or use you; who would speak your story and set the price you are to pay for it, or take and twist you until very little of what you were would remain in some fell beast, ravenous with hunger for what it can no longer bear to have. No. Here by the Sea, where the water shifts restlessly against the rocks it meets with the tides just the same in every century, you may stay just as you are, albeit caught in flesh of less repute to avoid suspicion. You may stray as far inland as you like, though you must ever watch for the Morgoth’s heavy fist, and are safer always by the water, where you might leave everything as inchoate, unfinished, threads hanging forever uncut from immense and changing tapestries, singing no song but the sharp mewing cry of the soul. 

This is the shrill cry of a true gull which can cause any of them to long for what lies beyond the great Sea without warning; for it is the call of memory, and of loves lost, sometimes long before they crossed the sundering water, left behind in blessed regret. 

 And so it may be Fingolfin’s cool grey eyes that catch yours, one lonely evening on the empty pier by the lake, orange-ringed and without mercy for what he is about the inflict, which is after all only the song of himself; his heart’s cry caught in sharp-beaked tongue; all the memory of Aman distilled into the simple, wretched, longing call of a common seagull. 

This story on AO3

#falmari #cirdan #ulmo #teleri #fingolfin #noldor #uhhhh #morgoth i guess #man i should be asleep its 2 in rhe morning dgfdfd #silm writing #the silmarillion #my writing