Seastone
Alcaron had barely settled back into the rhythm of life in Alóquandë when the summons arrived. It came not by messenger, nor by written decree, but upon the wind itself. A voice like a breath of the heavens whispered his name upon the sea breeze, a call that stirred something deep within his heart. At first, he thought it but a dream, yet when he stepped onto the white shores of the bay, Olwë himself awaited him, his gaze filled with solemn understanding.
"You are called to Ilmarin, Alcaron," Olwë said, his voice carrying both pride and sorrow. "The Elder King has summoned you. And your father, Finwë, shall join you."
The weight of the summons pressed upon Alcaron's chest. To be called before Manwë and Varda was no small thing—few among the Eldar had ever stood in their presence. He turned his gaze westward, where the peak of Taniquetil rose in eternal splendor, its snow-crowned summit shrouded in the light of the stars. There, in the halls of Ilmarin, the Elder King and the Star-Queen dwelled, watching over all of Arda from their high throne.
There was no question of refusing. The will of Manwë was the will of Eru's great design, and so Alcaron made ready.
The journey from Alóquandë was swift, for the winds carried him across the blessed lands, and soon he reached Tirion upon Túna. There, beneath the light of the Trees, he found his father waiting. Finwë, ever the steadfast and noble High King of the Noldor, looked upon his son with both pride and curiosity.
"It seems the Valar have more plans for you, my son," Finwë said as they embraced. "To be summoned by Manwë himself is no small thing. Have you any notion of what he intends?"
Alcaron shook his head. "Only that my path is changing, and that the sea and stone have not yet finished shaping me."
Together, father and son ascended Taniquetil, where the halls of Ilmarin stood upon the highest peak in all of Aman. The air grew thin, the light of the Two Trees distant, and the wind carried the scent of something both ancient and eternal. When they reached the summit, the sky itself seemed to open before them, revealing the resplendent thrones of the Elder King and his Queen.
Manwë sat upon his seat of sapphire, clad in robes woven from the very breath of the heavens. His gaze was piercing, seeing beyond sight, beyond time. Varda stood beside him, radiant as the night sky, her presence filling the chamber with an ethereal glow. The other Maiar who served them lingered in the distance, their forms shifting like mist and starlight.
Manwë's voice was as the wind before the storm, calm yet filled with the weight of power. "Alcaron, son of Finwë, you have walked many paths. But your journey is not yet complete."
Alcaron bowed his head.
Manwë's eyes shone with the light of the stars. "You have been gifted with vision, Alcaron, not only in the shaping of the world but in the unseen threads of fate. The dreams you carry, the magic that stirs in your blood—these are not idle gifts. They are the markings of one destined for more than a simple life as a prince."
Varda's voice was like the music of the heavens, her words filled with quiet certainty. "A ruler does not command by strength alone. He must learn to guide as one of his people, to understand their burdens and share their joys. This you must come to know."
Manwë continued, "You have learned much from Aulë and the rest of my kin, as well as from Olwë, and from the lands you have walked. But there are other lessons yet to be tested. You have studied under the teachings of Námo, Nienna, and Vairë—the wisdom of fate, sorrow, and the weaving of time. You have learned the ways of Oromë, Tulkas, Nessa, and Irmo—the paths of the wild, the strength of warriors, the dance of life, and the realm of dreams. Even Estë's healing touch has left its mark upon you. These lessons are not given in vain. They must now be tempered through responsibility."
Alcaron listened in silence, absorbing the weight of their words. He had never considered himself more than a craftsman, a secondborn son of the High King. But now, he was being told that his fate stretched beyond what he had ever imagined.
Finwë, standing beside him, nodded. "I see the wisdom in your words, my lord Manwë, and I do not oppose it. Yet Tirion has its king, and I must remain upon Túna. If my son is to take on this charge, he must do so not as a prince within my halls but as one who builds his own."
Manwë inclined his head. "Indeed. He must forge his own path, gather those who would follow, and lead not by decree, but by kinship."
Varda stepped forward, her hands raised as she revealed a great map of Aman, spread out in shimmering light before them. Upon it, mountains, rivers, and valleys lay in perfect detail, a reflection of the land as it truly was.
"Alcaron," she said, her voice carrying the certainty of the stars, "your heart belongs to both land and sea. Your hands have shaped the crafts of the Noldor, yet your spirit longs for the song of the waves. And in your betrothed, in the union of Noldor and Falmari, there is something new being woven. You must build where both may dwell."
A place upon the map began to glow—a valley nestled between towering mountains, through which rivers flowed eastward, leading to the great sea between Middle Earth and Aman.
"Here," Varda declared, "will you build your home."
Alcaron gazed at the marked land. It was untouched, unshaped. A place where no city stood, no ship had yet sailed. And yet, he felt something stir within him—an understanding, a vision of what could be.
Manwë's voice was gentle now, almost fatherly. "This will not be an easy path, Alcaron. You must gather those who will follow, build not only with stone and wood, but with wisdom and love. And in time, you will come to understand why you were chosen for this."
Alcaron breathed deeply. He was no longer simply a craftsman, no longer a mere secondborn prince. He was being given the chance to shape something that had never been before.
He bowed low before the Elder King and the Star-Queen. "I accept this charge. I will build this land."
Finwë placed a firm hand upon his son's shoulder, pride evident in his gaze. "Then go forth, my son. Let the world see what you will create."
Alcaron had not set foot in Tirion for 794 years. When he had left, he had been young, filled with the eager fire of the Noldor and the ceaseless drive to learn. Now, as he walked once more upon the white streets of the city, he felt the weight of all he had gained—the wisdom of the Falmari, the guidance of the Valar, and the ever-growing call of destiny upon his spirit.
The high towers of Tirion gleamed under the light of Telperion and Laurelin, their golden and silver radiance casting long shadows upon the polished streets of pearl and marble. Noldorin lords and artisans turned to watch him as he passed, their keen eyes assessing him as if he were a piece of fine craftsmanship, measuring how time and distance had shaped him. Many murmured in surprise at how he had changed—not only in appearance, with the touch of the sea and wind upon him, but in manner. He carried himself differently now, not with the impatient energy of youth, but with a tempered confidence, as if he had come to understand something few others had.
Upon reaching the royal halls, he was met by Indis, his stepmother, whose golden hair shone like the light of Laurelin itself. She welcomed him with warmth, though her perceptive gaze lingered upon him, sensing the unseen burden he now carried.
"You have been long away, my son," she said, her voice gentle. "And yet, I see that the tides have carried you not only far, but deep."
Alcaron inclined his head. "Much has changed, and much is still uncertain."
She studied him for a moment before giving a knowing smile. "Then speak to Finwë. If anyone can help you see the path ahead, it is he."
His father, Finwë, was waiting in the great chamber, seated upon the high throne of the Noldor, yet he rose when Alcaron entered, embracing his son in a firm grasp. "You have returned at last," Finwë said, stepping back to regard him. "And not as the boy who left."
Alcaron let out a breath, his hesitation surfacing at last. "As you know I have been given a task, Father, and I do not know if I am suited for it. I am to lead a people, yet I have never ruled. What if I fail?"
Finwë smiled. "A true leader does not command subjects, Alcaron. He inspires them. You need not have all the answers now—only the will to walk the path laid before you."
Alcaron nodded slowly, though doubt still lingered. Would anyone even follow him? Would they leave behind the splendor of Tirion for the uncertainty of a new home? He was about to find out.
The next day, Finwë granted Alcaron the right to address the people in the Great Square of Tirion. It was a place of debate, learning, and declaration, where the greatest minds of the Noldor had spoken their truths. Now, Alcaron stood upon its high steps, gazing out at the gathered assembly.
He took a deep breath and spoke.
"I have been given a task by Manwë himself—to establish a new haven, a place of craft and knowledge, a home where the wisdom of the Noldor and the spirit of the sea may flourish together. It will not be Tirion, with its high towers and ancient halls, but something new—something yet to be shaped.
I do not command you, for I seek no throne. But if any among you desire to build, to create, to forge something beyond what has already been wrought, then I ask you: will you come?"
A hush fell over the crowd. Some scoffed, shaking their heads. Tirion was the pinnacle of beauty and craftsmanship; why would they abandon its splendor for uncertainty? Others murmured, considering. Then, from among them, a voice rang out.
"I will go."
A young smith stepped forward, his face alight with eagerness. "I have learned all I can in the forges of Tirion, yet I wish to shape something new."
Another stepped forward—a scholar, one who wished to study the waters as they had studied the stars. Then another, a sailor whose heart longed for the open sea. More voices followed, weaving together into something greater than any one of them alone.
And then, to Alcaron's astonishment, a group of Falmari emerged from among the gathered Noldor. At their head was Meregoth, a minor lord of Olwë's court, and beside him stood his daughter, Nimloth.
"I will follow," Nimloth declared, her sea-grey eyes meeting Alcaron's. "The time has come for our peoples to weave something new together."
Meregoth nodded. "We will come. Let this settlement be a place where the crafts of the Noldor and the ways of the Falmari may meet as one."
Alcaron felt something stir within him, something greater than mere purpose—hope.
Word spread swiftly through Tirion and Alóquandë. With Aulë's blessing, skilled builders and smiths pledged their hands to the task. Among them were masons who had shaped the halls of Tirion, and crafters who sought to test their skill upon untouched lands. The Falmari, in turn, promised to aid in the construction of the harbor, ensuring that the new haven would be forever bound to the sea. In the end Alcaron had around 8000 willing followers that would join him in thisa new part of his life.
The journey was to begin soon, and in the final days of preparation, a wind stirred from the heights of Taniquetil, sweeping down over Tirion. It carried the scent of open waters, of lands yet unseen. Manwë had sent his blessing.
At last, when all was ready, Alcaron stood upon the edge of Tirion, gazing toward the horizon. Behind him stood those who had chosen to follow, their hearts bound not by loyalty alone, but by the shared dream of a new beginning.
And with the wind at their backs, they set forth.
For twelve days they journeyed through Aman, their path taking them through landscapes both beautiful and perilous. They crossed hills of gold and green, where the light of the Trees still lingered in the grass. They passed ancient groves where no song had ever been sung and waded through cold rivers where the current nearly claimed one of the younger travelers, saved only by the swift hands of the Falmari.
As they went, they felt the presence of Aman's untouched places—silent, waiting, as if the land itself listened to their passing.
At last, upon the twelfth day, they crested a ridge and beheld the valley.
It was a land of breathtaking beauty—mountains rose on either side, guarding a fertile basin where rivers wound their silver paths to the western sea. The air was fresh with the scent of water and earth, and the land lay untouched, waiting to be shaped.
Alcaron stood at the height of the ridge, gazing upon the land that was to be his. He could see it already—not just as it was, but as it would become. A city where stone and water met, where Noldor and Falmari could shape something new together.
With the guidance of Aulë's smiths, the first stones were set, forming the foundations of the halls that would rise. The Falmari mapped the coastline, marking where harbors would take shape, where ships would rest upon the tides.
And when at last the first stone was laid, Alcaron stepped forward.
"This place shall have a name," he said, looking between the Noldor and Falmari. "A name that binds land and sea, craft and wave."
And thus, their city, Eärondë was born.