To Havens and Havens Not

The sky is brilliant red, dancing with the colors of sunset and mingled with the threat of a coming storm. Men stand quietly on the deck of the ship looking out West for a brief moment. It is a ritual they have repeated every day of our journey north. Since we set out from Pelargir the mariners have followed a rigid schedule, keeping the ship clean and tight. The sea-captain, Azranar, is a tall Dunadan of nearly pure blood. His grand-father’s mother, the crew whisper, was a lady of Rohan who for the love of her husband spent most of her life near the sea and even accompanied him on a few voyages.

Azranar is a veteran of Gondor’s many wars with the Corsairs of Umbar and their allies from Kadar-dulgî in far Harad. He led the defense of Dunlond in Anfalas during the great war with Mordor. Five ships of Corsairs unloaded a large raiding force that laid siege to the small city. While great matters were settled in the east, Azranar ensured that the people of Dunlond withstood the Corsairs’ attacks. On the day that Middle-earth was freed from the Great Enemy’s threat he led a sortie against the enemy that broke their lines and sent them screaming for their ships.

As a youth Azranar accompanied his father on voyages as far north as Mithlond, one of the few Gondorian sea-captains in recent memory to brave the perilous voyage beyond the Bay of Belfalas. In centuries past Gondor’s ships ruled the seas and her mariners set foot on every land. But after the Barad-dur was raised again the ancient seaward nations of Harad united to threaten Gondor’s shipping. Most men abandoned the sea, leaving the Stewards with too few ships to ward the coasts. Now, at the behest of King Elessar himself Azranar is returning to the north with under Gondor’s flag.

This journey is as much symbolic as it is vital to the interests of Gondor. The coastlands of the northwest are now largely deserted, though once they teemed with Elven and Númenorean ships and outposts. Our first destination is Mithlond, the remnant of Cirdan’s ancient cities on the Gulf of Lune. Cirdan himself is gone but a few of his folk remain. They are wardens and caretakers, but they are also young according to the measure of the Elves. They hardly knew Middle-earth and were not yet ready to bid it farewell when Cirdan, Elrond, Galadriel, and many other Elves finally set sail in Cirdan’s last ship.

From Mithlond we will visit Harlond and Forlond, the ancient havens that were once the heart of King Gil-galad’s ancient realm. He died more than three thousand years ago in war that was supposed to end the threat of the Great Enemy forever. Gil-galad’s name resonates with deep emotion among the Dunedain of Gondor. But for his sacrifice (and the sacrifices of his warriors), there would be no Gondor, for the southern kingdom bore the brunt of the first assaults from Mordor.

From Forlond our ship, Azarroth, will sail west to the island of Himling. Few Men have ever walked there. The Corsairs do not venture near the island for Cirdan’s folk defended it fiercely against all intrusions. As one of the remnants of Noldorin civilization in Beleriand, Himling is almost sacred ground to the High Elves of Middle-earth. They do not abide the intrusions of the curious there. Elessar, who grew up among the Elves of Imladris, is loathe to see the island abandoned for lack of Elvish mariners to watch over it. So the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor will take up the stewardship of Cirdan. The former lands of Beleriand, where the ancestors of the Dunedain and the Eldar fought and died together in the dreadful wars against the first Great Enemy, will remain inviolate for as long as the Two Kingdoms last.

It is said that the lands do not forget the Elves easily but the sea knows no such reverence. Its waters have not been shaped or guided by Elvish loremasters. Men fear the Sea. Elves dream of it. But the Sea ignores them or in fits of madness sends them plunging to their deaths beneath angry waves. Master Cirdan was never her master, and his pupils and proteges all paid her their respects. Thus each day the mariners aboard the Azarroth acknowledge the Sea in little ways, speak respectfully of it, and look towards the West almost as if expecting to behold angry demons riding monstrous waves toward them.

But these men are not fearful. They are more fascinated, enraptured. You see it in their eyes. If they have an idle moment between the endless tasks that keep mariners’ hands busy and out of mischief they stare wistfully at the waves, their thoughts cast far beyond the wooden decks. Their hearts glow with a strong bond for the sea that their forefathers’ most distant ancestors felt. The Sea is in the blood of the Númenoreans and their children. That bond is most apparent in Azranar, who strides from stern to bow without losing his balance or pausing to shift for the rolling, heaving decks.

And how the decks heave! Even on this clear, almost calm day the ship sways and rolls atop great swells that wash toward the shoreline of Middle-earth. It is not always like this, the mariners say; but the swells are driven by the storm winds that blow out at sea. There are times of the year when there are hardly any swells at all. There are times of the year when there are swells nearly every day because of the frequency of the storms. On this journey we have beheld storm clouds to the west 3 days out of 5.

The storm rolls in toward shore at night and most of the crew remains below deck as the winds rage around us. The winds were strong enough that all sails were taken in, but the storm was not nearly the worst the crew has ever seen. The laugh at the seasickness new crewmembers succumb to but by midnight nearly every gullet is empty and the men have sought comfort in deep sleep, except for those on watch. The captain and his son take turns on deck through the night.

By morning the sky is clear and the seas have calmed again. We put out full sail and head almost due north. We will make good time on this day but as evening approaches the ship turns suddenly eastward. The men look up in surprise. “Land! Land east away!” the lookout cries and all eyes turn toward the bow of the ship. We see a thin dark line on the horizon but there is break in it. As we get nearer we see that the break widens. It is a river feeding into the sea. A very large river.

We sail right into the bay and up the river’s mouth, moving close to the southern shore. There are trees near the bank but beyond we see fens and marshes. To the north the faint shore boasts a thin treeline yet beyond that is a rolling grassland. “Look!” Azranar says, pointing toward a lump of rocks and dirt near the southern river bank. “Lond Daer,” he says. The men gaze long at the mound that barely reveals any aspect of once having been one of Númenor’s great ports in Middle-earth. The place is well-marked by mariners who sail this far north. Although the old quays are long gone the bay offers a safe harbor amid rough weather.

Long ago the bay and this river were plied by ships from many ports. Lond Daer Ened was the Great Middle Haven of the northern lands. Mithlond was the major port in the northern world, used by both Elves and Númenoreans. And Pelargir served as a bastion of Númenorean power close to Mordor, the land of the Great Enemy. Lond Daer possessed a shipyard and the Númenoreans cut deep into the forests along either side of the river, which they had named the Gwathló, the “River of Shadows”. The ancient trees were so immense they sheltered the river and a gloomy mist often rose up from the waters, wreathing the river and its banks in shadows and fog.

The inhabitants of the woodlands were Men of near kin to the Númenoreans. One of the ancient houses of the Edain of Beleriand, the Folk of Haleth, came from these lands, from those woodmen. Their clans ranged as far north as Bree in Arnor and as far south as the Ered Nimrais in Gondor. Many of Gondor’s common folk, indeed some of the mariners on this ship, are descended from the fathers of the fathers of the woodmen. The Númenoreans called them Gwathuirim, “the Shadow Folk” or “the Folk of (the) Gwathló“. Their descendants on the south side of the river are the Dunlendings who are now ruled by King Éomer of Rohan.

There was no love lost between the Númenoreans and their distant kinsmen. Númenor desired wood for ships and during the War of the Elves and Sauron the Gwathuirim saw their chance to take back those trees by serving the Great Enemy. Instead he betrayed them and burned the forests to deny the Númenoreans and their Elven allies any place of cover or resources. The Gwathuirim paid dearly for serving the Enemy and those who survived the wars fled into the deep hills near the mountains or the small remnant of the wooded lands in the north near the mouth of the Baranduin on the northern side of Minhiriath. That forest is still named Eryn Vorn today, “The Dark Forest”.

Other Men still dwell along the coasts south of Lond Daer. Some of them are peaceful, kinsmen of the mysterious Druedain who live in Anorien’s Druadan Forest and Druwaith Iaur in Andrast. Others, perhaps descendants of the Gwathuirim, hunt in the wilderness that we call Enedwaith. They owe allegiance to no king but do not serve the dark lords. They shun the ruins of Lond Daer Ened and do not venture upriver to Eregion or Tharbad.

We shelter on the river for the night. A cool sea breeze blows in and raises the mist. Along the shore all is quiet and still. One can almost hear the ghosts of ancient Númenoreans cutting trees, building ships, repairing seawalls, and marching out to war along the coast roads. In the days of their power the Númenoreans feared no men.

When morning comes we see the mist rising up from the river. The waters are not still and they push against the sea breeze. A brief battle persists and the fog rises almost like the dust from a battle. The mariners pause in their tasks to take in the scene, to feel the ancientness of Middle-earth. Most of them grew up hearing stories of these waters, but only a couple of them have sailed this way before with the captain.

Soon, however, we get underway and start moving out to sea again. Our course takes us along the coast. More than a hundred miles along the coast we reach the Bay of Minhiriath. An ancient haven stood here in the days of Arnor but it was not the equal of Lond Daer or Pelargir. It was simply a harbor that barely served more than fisher-folk. An occasional sea-faring vessel might stop by. We sail past the bay, past its gentle hills and light woods. The green grass sways in the wind and we see sheep grazing there. Perhaps some men yet dwell in the region, or these may be wild sheep.

Another fifty miles or so brings us to the mouth of the Baranduin and night is almost upon us. Looking north we see the southern end of the Ered Luin, ancient mountains that have populated the tales and songs of Men and Elves for thousands upon thousands of years. Dwarves live there. Elves once dwelt nearby. Men passed over those mountains and sailed around them in ages past. As we sail into the Bay of Baranduin we all but ignore Eryn Vorn, one of the last remnants of the ancient forests of Minhiriath. It is Ered Luin that captures our thoughts.

At the base of the mountains lie the gentle wooded hills of Harlindon, once the abode of the Sindar Elves of Beleriand before they wandered east to establish realms in forests far, far away. The Baranduin itself was once a major artery of the North-kingdom. Elendil’s people settled along its length extending all the way to the Emyn Uial, the Hills of Evendim. This area is now deserted. There are no cities, no farms, not even the merest hint of ruins. Small seafaring vessels can approach the river but there is no need. Boats used to come down the river laden with hides, grains, and other trade goods.

If we were to follow the river north it would take us to the Land of the Halflings, which they call their Shire. From the Shire came the Halfling ring-bearers who, it is said, saved Middle-earth from the designs of the Great Enemy. It is said they have left Middle-earth with the Elves. If that is true it is a truly remarkable thing indeed. No man is permitted to set foot in the land of the Halflings. They are sheltered by the Reunited Kingdom, and it is the delight of the Dunedain to protect them.

We spend the night sheltering in the bay. Keen-eyed lookouts among the crew say they see movement on the southern shore but Azranar is unconcerned. Even if the woodland folk were hostile toward us they do not venture into the waters. Unlike their Númenorean kinsmen they never took to the sea. They can only stare out from beneath their black trees in awe, or perhaps fear, remembering ancient griefs or wondering whom we may be. Do they remember Gondor and Arnor? Do they tell their children of the tall, fierce Númenoreans, cutters of trees and slayers of woodlands?

We set out in the early morning. Our journey has already brought us far but we still have more than 300 miles to sail before we reach the ancient harbors of the Elves. We sail along the coast of Harlindon and remark the long, thin line of the Ered Luin. The southern chain is deserted, they say. Once there was an ancient Dwarven city named Nogrod there. According to dim and distant legends the Dwarves fought beside the Elves of Beleriand but driven mad by lust for one of the blessed Silmarils they took war into Doriath itself, the heart of Beleriand. In retaliation the trees of the forest slew their warriors and Nogrod’s people never recovered.

If any Dwarves remain in the southern mountains now they are few and long since chastened. The Dwarves of Ered Luin were friends with the Men of Arnor, fighting beside them in their long wars against Angmar. And it is said they still trade with the Halflings of the Shire and the folk of Bree. But most of the Dwarves of Ered Luin live far from the coast for they do not love the sea.

The shorelands, Captain Azranar tells his crew, were once called Ossiriand, “land of seven rivers”. An ancient elven folk named the Laegrim, the Green Elves, dwelt there. They abhorred the slaying of animals for meat and thought men were uncouth. The Laegrim vanished with Beleriand, perhaps slain by the first Great Enemy, perhaps driven far from the tumults that destroyed most of Beleriand. A few of them, it is said, joined the Sindar and thus enrichened that Elven culture with woodwise skills and memories of ancient woodland songs.

We sail through the night for Azranar will not set foot in Harlindon. If there are Elves there, he says, they want to be left alone. Gondor will not send its ships and soldiers where the First Folk would deny them entrance. But we look ever northward for the promontory that marks the entrance to the Gulf of Lune and the heart of Gil-galad’s kingdom. We arrive there mid-day the next day.

Gil-galad was the last of the ancient High Kings of the Noldor, it is told. His fathers rebelled against the Valar and brought a great part of their people back to Middle-earth in exile. There in Beleriand they were joined in their hopeless war against the first Great Enemy by Dwarves, Sindar, and Men. After many centuries and many great battles the Eldar and the Edain were defeated and the Dwarves divided. New men entered Beleriand in the service of the Dark Lord and they fought for him against the Host of the West that came to Middle-earth to deliver the oppressed masses of Middle-earth to freedom.

Many great Elven kings and princes had dwelt in Beleriand, but of them all only two remained: Gil-galad and Cirdan. Cirdan, it is said, never took the title of king, though he came of the same ancient family from which the Sindar kings descended. Gil-galad was a child of both Noldor and Sindar and so became their last king. Galadriel, a Noldorin princess who had been one of the leaders of the rebellion, still lived but she and her husband Celeborn had passed over the mountains into Eriador before the wars ended. She alone of all the exiles was denied a return into the West.

Gil-galad and Cirdan had gathered all they could find of Beleriand’s once numerous people on the island of Balar. Ruined by the wars between the great powers, Balar began to sink into the sea — or was torn apart. Gil-galad and Cirdan brought all their people ashore in Forlindon near the bed of the ancient river Gelion. There Gil-galad founded the city of Forlond, the North Haven. Returning across the mountains Celeborn gathered all the Sindar of Doriath and other lands who wished to remain in Middle-earth and he built the city of Harlond, capital of Harlindon. But Cirdan took his own ancient folk, who had been the mariners of Beleriand, and he settled in two cities on either side of the mouth of the Lhun river.

These were the Grey Havens, Mithlond. From the entrance to the Gulf of Lhun to Mithlond it is another 150 miles. Though the western winds would drive our ship quickly, Azranar makes for the ruined north haven. Though few if an Elves have lived there for a long time, it is remembered in the chronicles of Gondor for once upon a time a Gondorian fleet sought harborage there. Indeed, all the harbors of the gulf were filled with the ships of that fleet. It was only a part of Gondor’s naval strength of that day but the northern cities had never before received so many ships.

Forlond stands to this day overlooking the shore. Its ancient towers are silent. There are no lights upon its walls. We hear no songs from Elves. The country is silent and whispers softly, perhaps recounting ancient memories between the rocks and the trees of happier days when the Firstborn still walked there. The crew are daunted and quiet. Even those of the highest Númenorean blood seem more subdued by the memory of the High Elves than by anything else we have encountered on this journey.

Except for Azranar. He takes a boat and one loyal companion toward the shore. We see their lantern burning brightly on the water. They row alongside the ancient quays. Azranar has sworn to gaze upon the handiwork of the Elves at every chance upon this journey. Among his fathers he counts men from the Line of Anarion, who being a son of Elendil is descended from the earliest Kings of Númenor, and they in turn were descended from Elros Tar-Minyature, brother of Master Elrond. The Peredhil they were called, the Half-elven. In their veins flowed the blood of the kings of the Noldor and Sindar. Azranar does not fear the ghosts of Elvenkind for he is akin to them.

There are many such as he in Gondor, men of Númenorean blood whose forefathers might once have claimed kinship with the kings. But owing to the jealousy of Gondor’s rulers many men of the Royal House either fled Gondor to join its enemies’ causes or they foreswore their right to claim the throne. Azranar’s family is noble by all accounts but it long ago abandoned its royalty. The choice was sensible but men like Azranar look upon these relics of the past and think of things that never were and yet which might have been, had their ancestors made better choices in their days.

In the morning the sun peeks over the horizon. We cannot see Mithlond from here but we gaze upon the Elvish country, longing to be there, and yet knowing that it does not await us. Our footsteps would be unwelcome, even those of Azranar. Reluctantly, almost heaving great sighs in a struggle to breathe we turn away and the ship moves out of the harbor. We follow the coast eastward at a leisurely pace. We watch the shore pass by and the northern branch of the Ered Luin grow larger in our sight.

The two mountain chains were once one. The Gulf of Lhun did not open up until the end of the First Age, when the War of Wrath brought ruin and destruction upon Beleriand. Somewhere to the north of us stood the ancient city of Belegost, the northern stronghold of the Dwarves of Beleriand. Unlike Nogrod’s folk the Belegostians remained faithful to their Elven allies. They only fought against the servants of the Great Enemy. But their labors were unrewarded for Belegost became so perilous that its people left early in the Second Age, fleeing to Khazad-dum, which men now call Moria.

There are still Dwarves in these lands but they have little to do with the Elves. They are concerned with their own affairs, the business of the Seven Houses, and with assisting in the reconstruction of Arnor. King Elessar has retained many Dwarven wrights to help build cities and roads. The Dwarves rebuilt Annúminas for Elessar when he brought many people north. It is said there are now more Dwarves living in the Emyn Uial than in the Ered Luin.

Late in the afternoon we approach Annui-lond, the “western haven” of Mithlond. Across the gulf almost directly east is Rhunen-lond, the “eastern haven”. The eastern haven is now abandoned but there are still Elves living in the western haven. They greet us and welcome us ashore. This is the first warm and friendly greeting we have received since leaving Gondor. The Elves crowd around us, outnumbering us. They knew a ship from Gondor would arrive soon but not when. They are pleased our journey was uneventful.

It is surprising to find Elves still living here in Mithlond. Rumor says they all departed Middle-earth with Master Elrond, but that is not entirely true. His sons, it is said, still dwell in peace at Imladris. Celeborn, King of East Lorien, remains in the east with many Elves. Thranduil, his kinsman, still rules in northern Eryn Lasgalen (“the Wood of Green-leaves”). And Legolas, son of Thranduil, abides in Ithilien, though he says he will soon leave Middle-earth.

The folk of Mithlond are gracious, charming, and warm. Some of them once dwelt in Imladris. Others have come from as far away as Lothlorien. A few were once members of Cirdan’s folk. They are teaching the ancient craft of ship-building to the newcomers. Among their many tasks, however, is the need to maintain the seawalls and quays that protect the city, and the care of its gardens and buildings. We are given a tour of the small city, shown those of its quarters where Elves still dwell. They are numerous enough to fill more than a few streets but they are but a faint echo of a once hardy civilization that ruled much of Middle-earth.

We spend a few days in the city. The Elves help us improve our Sindarin speech. We hear many tales of ancient days. There is even a brief excursion outside the city. But soon our sojourn comes to an end. Azranar gathers up his reluctant crew and brings us all aboard. Our supplies have been restocked. Some minor damage to the ship has been repaired. With a final toast we bid our hosts farewell and sail west toward the entrance to the gulf. The crew go about their tasks quietly. They are lost in their own thoughts, each remembering the dearest moments of his visit among the Elves.

Time passes quickly and we reach Forlond but Azranar is determined to make for the open sea as quickly as possible. The ship continues sailing into the night. The crew take shifts but there is little to do. The wind is favorable, the skies are clear, the seas are relatively calm. And the stars are bright, perhaps brighter than we have ever seen them before. Is this what it was like to live in the Elven realms of yore, we wonder?

And, of course, it is not. For the Elves dwelt many thousands of years under the power of their talismans, the great Rings of Power, whose secret was to hold back the effects of time. Those rings failed with the unmaking of the One Ring, which so deprived the Great Enemy of strength that it is foretold he will never return to trouble this world. The world we see today is older, more ancient with the weight of years previously unfelt. But it is clearer, more crisp, more substantial. It is said that if one would have wandered into Imladris or Lothlorien in the days of the rings that one might lose track of the passing of time, and months might go by without any clear sign that was so.

We know that the days are passing as normally as in Gondor for us, and we have held true to our course and our purpose. Still, Himling is a long way off. We continue to sail north along the coast for another day, and then we turn west. We spend a day searching the endless waves for signs of an island. Near the evening hour a lookout cries out wearly, “Land! Land away west!”

All hands crowd to the fore of the ship to look at the fabled island. It was once a great hill or small mountain, a stronghold of the Elves of Beleriand. Here dwelt Maedhros, King of the Noldor whom some call the Fëanorians. From their ranks came many of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, the Elven smiths who fell into folly and made the Rings of Power. As we approach the island Azranar reminds us that it was Maedhros and his brothers who carried on the labors of their father, Fëanor, who had led the Noldor into exile.

Maedhros ruled the eastern Noldor in the land that was named for him, the March of Maedhros. His brothers held all the land here eastward to the Ered Luin. They built fortresses and cut roads through the ancient land to ensure that their cavalry would contain the eastern forces of the Great Enemy. But in the end he was more cunning than they, and through the shame and treachery of men he overwhelmed them. Maedhros and his brothers were driven into the wilderness. Soon the other Elven realms were destroyed and all the dreams and hopes of the Noldor and Sindar were brought to nothing.

We sail slowly around the island, marking its features. In one place we espy an ancient wall that may once have been part of a fortress — the stronghold of Maedhros. Cirdan’s mariners sailed here often yet whether they stepped ashore on this most sacred ground of the Noldor we cannot say. Azranar will not approach the island. Even his ancient blood quails at the thought of disturbing this place which has known both great evil and valiant good will, for they who dwelt here were of a strange and foreign blood.

We gaze upon Himling and we know deep in our hearts that no Corsair will ever dare step upon that island. It holds tightly to the ghosts of the past. The memory of those who fell defending these rocky outcrops is still powerful. We have come this far, to the very edge of Middle-earth, but we mere Mortal Men will go no farther for it is not appointed to us that we should share the same lands as the Elves.

# # #

Have you read our other Middle-earth Unplugged articles?

8

Click to Like