The Last Ship

They rode slowly, savouring the last of Middle-earth, absorbing even the most bleak and wasted parts as fully as Elven memory might. They rode without haste, knowing the time of their arrival would be soon enough, whenever it might be. They rode alone, for there were none who wished to greet them now; the friendship between mortals and the remnants of Elf-kind that had flourished when Arwen and Aragorn ruled in Gondor had dwindled long ago. They were the last who would be taking this road with this intent, and so they did not hasten, letting the farewell take as long as was needed. But all journeys must end, and the horses carried them at last down the final grass grown stretch of road to the shores of the sea.

The Havens were crumbling. Few remained of the mariners and their purpose would soon be done. Yet one quay was still cared for, and one white ship rode there beside it. The small party dismounted as the Shipwright came forward and he bowed low. The foremost of them returned the bow, with equal depth. Both were lords of their people, and they had known each other for many ages.

“Hail, Círdan.”

“You are welcome, Lord Celeborn. The Last Ship awaits.”

The Shipwright was old. Old enough that Celeborn, who could remember the first rising of the Sun, was awed by the weight of years in his eyes. So old that none remained who knew his age. He had made the journey from Cuiviénen in the days before days, so much was known, but some said he had not been young even then. He was so old he showed his years as mortals did, although his body was hale. As age followed age, and kingdoms rose and fell, Círdan had remained; like the sea itself the Shipwright always remained. Yet now even Círdan’s time was ending, and the white ships would no longer sail westwards.

“I choose not to fade,” Celeborn said aloud. A hard and bitter choice, for he could not temper his love for Middle-earth nor, despite the sea-call in his blood, did he long for Valinor and its images of perfection. But in the end, and the end was at hand, in the end he chose not to fade.

His wife had sailed long since. They had parted in hardness, although without angry words, each had known this was the way that it would be. Neither had been accepting. Celeborn could not understand her: she, who had sworn she would not crawl back to the Powers of Aman, had done so at the last, she had left her land and his and gone back to the kin he despised. Back to the Valar, who had held their hand so long whilst his kindred suffered, innocent of guilt, unless to search for a kinsman instead of obeying the westward summons be counted a crime. Perhaps it was in their eyes, what had the Valar ever done for the Forsaken? And she had gone back to them.

He stroked the mane of his horse one final time, then whispered in its ear. There was neither saddle nor bridle to need removal. With a soft whinny and a last pat of his hand on its flank the horse turned from the water and, followed by its fellows, trotted inland. Celeborn had no fear for them; they were wise beasts.

“Are there any yet to come?” He did not doubt that Círdan would know, just as he himself had known the last ship was making ready.

“One, perhaps.” The answer was quiet, and strangely sad. He followed Círdan’s gaze along the northward strand, black and silver in the moonlight. Celeborn’s eyes were keen, yet it took a little time for him to distinguish the solitary figure from a hump of jagged stone.

Círdan had begun to walk unhurriedly down the beach. Celeborn followed without a word.

The elf sat on a spar of rock near the water’s edge, quiet and unmoving. His gaze was turned seawards, and it was not until Círdan was all but beside him that he turned his head. He was gaunt and haggard, face bitterly worn without wearing the lines of age as the Shipwright’s did. His clothes, of mortal weave, were ragged, and his long dark hair hung down unkempt. Yet there was a glimmer of light deep in his hollow eyes that Celeborn knew for what it was, the last reflection of the lost Trees of Valinor. This was a Noldo of Aman. He had thought that none remained.

The elf inclined his head slightly to Círdan. “Master Shipwright.” His eyes passed over Celeborn, and he moved his head again, a bare acknowledgement.

“This is the Last Ship,” said Círdan.

“I know it. I came to watch the sailing.” His voice was low and musical, yet empty, like the song of wind in dead places.

“Will you not board?”

“I may not. You must know it.”

“Do you fear the judgement of the Valar still? Or is it pride that holds you back?”

“Pride and fear are long outworn,” the elf said quietly. “But I defied the summons of Manwë’s herald, and brought bloodshed into the hosts of Valinor.” He extended his left hand slightly, and Celeborn saw that it was crippled by scars of burning. “I was offered judgement, and I rejected my chance. What ship would bear me?”

“The Last Ship will.” The strange elf looked up. Círdan spoke with the weight of authority. “Few things are eternal within Arda. This is the last sailing of the Eldar. You have another chance.”

The elf remained quiet and still for a long time, haunted eyes turned again to the sea, which beat in its ageless pattern as the small group waited. Celeborn was on the brink of speech, but in the end held silent. He knew Círdan well enough not to speak against him lightly.

“What use would be my return?” the Noldo said at last. “Can the judgement of the Valar undo my deeds? What can I bring, after so long, to those I slew and who now live again, or to their kindred who were left to mourn bereft?”

“The chance, perhaps, to forgive you,” Círdan said in steady tones.

“Forgiveness?” The dead voice rang out sharply, for a moment it seemed the elf would laugh, but he did not. Instead he turned to Celeborn, still standing by in silence. “You are Sindar, are you not, and your eyes tell me you lived long in the light of Doriath. You know who I am?”

“The Singer by the Sea,” Celeborn answered.

“You are either cautious or courteous.” A bitter smile touched the gaunt face fleetingly. “You know other names. Thrice Kinslayer, accursed rebel, betrayer of kindred and bearer of Doom.” His voice had grown stronger as he spoke, resounding with an echo of great power. “You know who I am, Grey-elf, so name me right!”

“You are Maglor, son of Fëanor.” The last of that hated line, still living long after he had last been seen by the Eldar. His own wife’s kindred, for all she had had no love for that branch. “And my name is Celeborn.”

“Then you are close kin to Nimloth, and to Dior Eluchíl.” The hollow eyes, that held dark and memory of light at once, met Celeborn’s. “Prince of Doriath, would you forgive me?”

Celeborn was silent. Had he ever imagined such a question he would have thought for sure to cry out, ‘No!’ What forgiveness could there be for the ruin of Doriath and the slaughter at the mouths of Sirion, for the brutal slaying of elves by elves? He had been present at neither, following Galadriel to Balar as he always followed her when his love was young. He had not been present, but had never forgotten, anymore than he had forgotten Thingol’s death at the hands of dwarves, distrusting all their kind forever after. One of his divisions with his wife.

“Do you repent your actions?” Círdan was saying.

“Repent? I do not know. I feel regret. But is it possible to repent, when it is not possible to name any action which I would do differently if I stood in the same place again?” His eyes were on the sea again, his voice soft as the waves on the shore. “Once we had sworn, then there was no escape, for an Oath sworn by Ilúvater is stronger than the strongest will. But we saw the grief in our father, and the fire, and how could we not swear?” Again he held his hand out, eyeing its ruin. “I would undo what came of our Oath if I could, but how can I repent?”

“If you have found no answers in Middle-earth, in so much time, then I do not believe that you will,” said Círdan. “There is nothing you can earn by lingering here. Will you not return to Valinor, where healing may be found as well as judgement? Healing and counsel.”

“Do I merit either?” the Kinslayer countered softly.

“That is not the question. Are there not those who would desire your return? Your mother?”

Something changed in the elf’s face then, some new pain seemed born. “My mother…. Perhaps so.”

“Your foster son,” the elf looked round swiftly at Celeborn’s voice, surprised it seemed, as indeed Celeborn had surprised himself. It had taken long for him to forgive Elrond, not for the circumstances of his rearing, but for his refusal to regret it. He had extended toleration only because he wished to see his daughter happy. Yet now the old hatred seemed hollow. He had not pictured a soul so emptied.

“Elrond mourned you,” he said with conviction, “and he has lost too many in his life. Whatever your fate, would it not be better for those who cared for you to know it, rather than to remain forever uncertain?”

The last lord of the Kinslayers said nothing, yet something wavered in his eyes. And Celeborn remembered. Remembered tales he had heard of the Noldor, of the prince who had forgiven his brother for placing a sword to his breast, and been betrayed for his forgiveness, and lived to forgive that same brother’s sons. A fool, Celeborn had thought him, but perhaps he had been wrong. If he had done no more than earn his people time, he had done that. And good things had been born in those years of unity, his own love for Galadriel not least. The choice had not been worthless

He remembered his wife, and the words that had been almost her last before parting. “I am ready for forgiveness. I am ready both to extend and receive.”

He had known her meaning, although he closed his mind. Ready to forgive the Valar, for their long inaction, letting Beleriand fall into ruin and Morgoth triumph; while her brothers, who had no part in the slaughter of Alqualondë, fought and died with their followers; and Sindar and Edain suffered no less. Galadriel had forgiven the Valar. Could he?

Would they forgive each other, in the far lands, forgive the bitterness of parting and renew their joy?

Forgiveness had seldom been the way of his own people, save for Círdan. It had not been the way of Thingol, kinsman and lord. Celeborn had scorned the Noldor, excepting only his beloved and her brothers. Had they perhaps things to teach after all? A strange new thought, yet if he would leave his old lands he could learn some new ways.

“I am but one of many whose kin you slew,” he said slowly. “But if my forgiveness is of any worth, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, then you have it.” And his soul felt oddly lighter with the words, as though they held some healing for himself. “For Alqualondë and Doriath and Sirion,” he said, “I do forgive.” Forgiveness. All needed that, in some degree. “Will you not sail with us? Will you not seek for the means to forgive?”

“And who should I forgive?” It was a whisper on the air.

“Yourself,” said Círdan. “Will you not come?”

Maglor Fëanorion rose at last, and stood, tall and straight as the prince he had been once. “So be it.” No smile moved him, but his voice seemed lighter. “I will come.”

The tide washed in behind them as they left the beach.

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Optional Endnotes: With a few exceptions Tolkien's elves are not quick to forgive, but even amongst elves Celeborn still blaming all dwarves for the death of Thingol thousands of years later is excessive.  So this is really a story about Celeborn starting to let go of old grudges, but it had to have Maglor in it, although I'd already given him a different fate in another story, because there was no other character who could play the same role.

I find it hard to justify the Valar's willingness to let the Sindar suffer for the Noldor's misdeeds, and equally hard to believe an elf like Celeborn would not feel some resentment over it, hence the suggestion that for proper healing the elves need to forgive the Valar as well as each other.