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A Little Hope

Inspired by this post

Lord Círdan was weary. The court proceedings were exhausting. The ongoing dispute over constructing a bridge had been dragging on for weeks. It was beginning to fray his nerves. Finally, as the court session concluded, he decided to wander along the seashore. A gentle breeze swept through, and the sun was descending, casting a warm glow. Lord Círdan ambled along the coastline when he heard a faint cry. The cry was weak, resembling the distress of a wounded creature. Knowing that injured sea gulls were not uncommon, he scanned the area but found nothing.

Focusing intently, he pinpointed the source of the sound, which seemed to emanate from among the rocky terrain near the beach. Climbing carefully over the rugged rocks, he eventually discovered a white bundle. It was unmistakably not a sea gull. Drawing closer, he discerned that the cries belonged to a baby. He hurried towards the whimpering bundle. There was an elfling trapped between two rocks. The thin white fabric barely offering any protection. Sea water lapped at the helpless infant. Exposed to the elements, the harsh weather battered him relentlessly. His delicate navel, still swollen and raw, indicated that he had entered the world no more than a few moons ago. Though being an infant, he appeared incredibly tiny, his feeble cry barely audible amidst the sound of crashing waves. It seemed as though his voice was being drowned out, perhaps due to the relentless splashing of seawater on him.

Without hesitation, Lord Círdan swiftly lifted the elfling, enveloping him in his cloak to shield him from the biting cold. Drawing the baby close to his chest, he could feel the chill emanating from the tiny body, as if it were on the verge of freezing. Holding him gently, Círdan cradled the elfling, rubbing his back in an attempt to infuse some warmth into the almost frozen child. With a sense of urgency, Círdan hastened back to the castle, the elfling's fragile form nestled securely in his arms. As they journeyed back to the castle, the elfling grew eerily silent in Lord Círdan's arms. Trying not to dwell on the ominous silence, Círdan focused on the fact that the elfling seemed to be growing warmer, and he could still detect faint signs of life—a sporadic heartbeat that gave him hope amidst the uncertainty of the situation.

Arriving at the castle gate, Círdan wasted no time, urgently instructing his guards to summon the healer and maids to prepare a warm, comfortable room with plenty of blankets. Despite his efforts, the elfling remained too cold for Círdan's comfort. With gentle hands, he cleansed the baby with warm water, washing away the remnants of sea water that clung to his fragile form. Wrapping the elfling snugly in a soft blanket, Círdan anxiously awaited the arrival of the healers. Though the baby lay silent, devoid of any cries, faint movements reassured Círdan that there was still a spark of life within him. The elfling's frail body trembled with each passing moment, his shivers punctuated by moments of eerie silence. Lord Círdan held him close, offering what comfort he could provide to him. As he cradled the infant, Círdan couldn't fathom how anyone could commit such a callous act against an elfling, especially one so young. Barely a week old, the baby had not simply been abandoned, he had been left in a desolate location, devoid of any hope for survival. If he had been abandoned in a more accessible place perhaps someone could have found him and offered aid.

Suppressing his rising anger, Círdan resolved to uncover the reasons behind this act. There had to be some explanation, some motive driving such cruelty. Determined to seek justice for the helpless elfling, he vowed to unravel the mystery surrounding his abandonment and ensure that those responsible would be held accountable. Rondir, the healer arrived swiftly and gently took the baby from Lord Círdan's arms, conducting a thorough examination. With each movement, the healer's expression grew increasingly somber. Lord Círdan could now discern the unhealthy pallor of the elfling's skin—a disturbing shade of red, with hints of blue tinting his fingers and toes, a detail he had failed to notice earlier. His heart clenched with worry as the healer suddenly flipped the child over, administering chest compressions and abdominal pressure. Lord Círdan's breath caught at the seeming brutality of the procedure, but he trusted in the healer's expertise. After a few tense moments, seawater began to trickle out from the elfling's mouth and nose, a troubling indication of the ordeal the little life had to endured.

As the healer glanced up at Lord Círdan, their eyes meeting in silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. Rondir spoke softly, voice laden with concern. "My Lord," he began, "the condition of this child is dire. He is gravely ill, and his body bears the brunt of his harrowing ordeal."

Lord Círdan listened intently, his heart heavy with apprehension.

"The exposure to the sea water has chilled him to the bone," the healer continued, "and his senses have been greatly affected. His fever rages unchecked, and numerous infections have taken hold, ravaging his fragile form. His vital organs has been exposed to sea water and has been corroded."

Lord Círdan's brows furrowed in distress as he absorbed the bleak prognosis.

"The child's health hangs by a thread," the healer added solemnly, "Without intensive care and unwavering attention, he may succumb to his illnesses at any moment."

Círdan seem to be thinking and said firmly, "Do whatever to save the elfling. Spare no efforts. This one should live."

The Healer nodded and began to take care of the tiny infant. Whereas Círdan moved out. Old memories suddenly came to him and he felt a need to get out. He moved to the castle garden. For some reason the images of his dead son kept flashing. He perished in battle against Sauron and was thrown into the sea. When he was found he was just a bloated mess of mangled flesh. He couldn't help but think again and again "How could someone just leave such precious gift of Eru to die such horrible death?"

Tears welled up in Lord Círdan's eyes. He could scarcely recognize his own child, save for the familiar emblems on the armor and the ring that adorned his broken form. The injuries inflicted upon his son had been brutal, his body ravaged and bloated by the sea water that had seeped into his wounds. Many nights had passed since then, each one marked by tears shed for his lost son and his departed wife, who had succumbed to grief not long after. Lord Círdan had laid them both to rest and became a solitary figure in the vast expanse of Middle-earth. The sight of the abandoned infant stirred a torrent of emotions within Lord Círdan, prompting him to ponder the depths of cruelty that could drive a parent to forsake their own flesh and blood. He had cherished every moment with his son, from infancy to adulthood, holding onto mementos and memories with unwavering devotion. He had missed him so dearly that only time he was almost tempted by the dark side was when Sauron offered to reunite him with his son. Though he had resisted, the allure of seeing his son again had been a powerful temptation, a fleeting respite from the unrelenting grief that haunted him.

Hour by hour, Lord Círdan received reports on the infant's condition, his heart heavy with concern. Whenever he found a moment of respite from his duties, he would hasten to the crib where the elfling lay, unwilling to leave him alone for even a moment. The elfling's fragility was evident. The healer's assessments painted a grim picture: the elfling struggled to perceive the world around him, his senses dulled by illness and injury. His delicate skin bore the marks of infection, a result of his harsh exposure to nature. The damage caused by the sea water had infiltrated his organs, leaving them compromised and vulnerable. Even his navel, which was yet to recover from being disconnected from his mother, had become a site of infection. The healer's revelation about the elfling's undernourished mother only deepened his resolve to see the child through this ordeal. With each passing day, he offered prayers to Eru, beseeching the divine to grant the elfling the strength to endure. As Lord Círdan kept vigil over the infant, tending to his needs with unwavering dedication, he couldn't help but marvel at the resilience of this tiny being.

In moments of reflection, he pondered the appropriateness of calling the elfling simply "elfling." It seemed too crude a label for such a precious life. It was then that he learned that healers caring for the infant had taken to calling him Êl. The name resonated with Lord Círdan, a fitting tribute to the bright spark of resilience that shone within the fragile elfling. "Yes," he thought to himself, "Êl, a name worthy of his strength and resilience.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Amidst his vigil and his duties at court, Lord Círdan also pursued a clandestine investigation. He was determined to uncover the truth behind the abandoned baby.After much investigation, Lord Círdan uncovered the identity of the abandoned infant's parents: the wife of the revenue collector, Arion. They were a couple blessed with numerous children, and Êl was intended to be their seventh. As the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Lord Círdan's gaze hardened upon Arion, the revenue collector whose wife had borne the abandoned child. The revelation stirred a simmering anger within him, and he confronted Arion with a steely resolve.

Arion's response was swift. "I swear, my lord, I knew nothing of this child," he insisted, his tone pleading.

Lord Círdan's gaze narrowed. "The evidence suggests otherwise," he countered. "Witnesses saw you near the shore just days before the infant was discovered."

Arion's expression faltered. His eyes betrayed a flicker of guilt. Yet Arion vehemently protested his innocence, Lord Círdan's frustration mounted, his patience wearing thin. "My Lord, I would have known if my wife was pregnant," Arion insisted, his voice tinged with desperation. "I didn't know she was pregnant. She might have done something. And how can you be so sure that it's my child? Was there any evidence to prove it?"

Lord Círdan's jaw clenched as he struggled to contain his anger. "Impossible," he retorted through gritted teeth. "How could you not notice your wife's pregnancy?"

Arion's reply was swift. "I do not lie to you, my Lord," he maintained. Lord Círdan fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Are you certain? Let me repeat myself. The reports indicate that sea guards spotted you wandering near the shore just days before the child was found."

Arion attempted to deflect, his tone defensive. "Anyone can wander near the sea shore to calm their mind."

Lord Círdan's expression hardened. "Yes, they can," his voice icy with resolve, "but none would bribe a sea guard."

Arion's e,pression changed. Blood drained out of his face. His gaze darted to Lord Círdan, searching for some semblance of understanding. "My Lord, there were already too many children," he pleaded, his voice quivering with emotion. "And she didn't tell me she was pregnant again until it was too late. As her husband, I felt compelled to keep her secret and bribe a healer. But you know that was to be our seventh child. Parents of seven children are not looked upon favorably."

He glanced up at Lord Círdan, hoping to find agreement, but was met with a stony silence.

"You know what I mean, my Lord," Arion pressed on, desperation creeping into his voice. "Seven sons... the seventh son..."

Still, Lord Círdan remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Growing increasingly anxious, Arion continued to plead for mercy. "My Lord, I swear she tempted me. She said these things to me. She confessed that she had hidden the pregnancy out of fear of bearing seven sons and wished the child would die in the womb. But the pest persisted. So I had to get rid of it. She told me to do it."

As the tension in the room reached its peak, Lord Círdan finally broke his silence. "Summon his wife," he commanded, his voice cold and resolute. Arion's eyes widened in alarm, a strangled cry escaping his lips. "No, my Lord, please! She's tired and sick," he pleaded, but Lord Círdan remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on his trembling subject. Lord Círdan struggled to maintain his composure, his fury simmering beneath the surface as he listened to Arion's feeble excuses.

"Feanor may have had seven sons, but that does not excuse your actions," Lord Círdan finally spoke, his voice laced with disdain. "Abandoning a child out of fear of societal judgment is a cowardly act, unworthy of any elf."

Arion cowered before Lord Círdan's righteous indignation, his earlier bravado crumbling under the weight of his lord's condemnation. Lord Círdan observed Meluwen's arrival with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, her demeanor betraying the weight of guilt and desperation. Without preamble or greeting, she launched into her confession, her words laden with a sense of urgency.

"My Lord, we have done nothing wrong," Meluwen began, "Our son was deemed cursed even before his birth, foretold by a shaman. Despite our efforts to protect him, his soul seemed to attract only misfortune. Thus, we made the heartbreaking decision to abandon him near the sea, entrusting his fate to Ulmo in the hopes that he would care for the darkened soul. I swear, the rest I have nothing to do with."

Lord Círdan listened in disbelief as Arion's wife, Meluwen, offered a new explanation for their actions, one filled with superstition and desperation. Lord Círdan fought to contain his incredulity. "At least you should have sorted out your stories," he remarked dryly, his tone laced with skepticism. Meluwen turned to Arion, her confusion evident in her gaze. Arion, unable to meet her eyes, could only bow his head in shame, knowing that their deception had been exposed. Lord Círdan's voice cut through the tension once more, his patience worn thin. "Alright, speak up. The truth. There is no need to lie anymore," he demanded, his gaze piercing as he awaited their confession. Meluwen took a deep breath, her voice trembling with emotion as she began to speak. "We didn't want any more children," she confessed, "My husband made it clear that if there were any more children, he would leave me."

"Well, it's your fault for popping out child after child," Arion lashed out, his tone filled with bitterness. Meluwen's anger flared in response. "How can I help it?" she shot back, her voice rising with indignation. "You could spend more time away from me, you perverted bastard! You think being pregnant is easy? Since our first child, I've been wishing they would all just die so I could live in peace!"

Arion's rebuttal was equally scathing. "Ha! As if you do all the work," he sneered. "Servants run around you, yet you forgot to feed the children when the cooks were away."

Meluwen's voice rose to a crescendo as she continued to vent her frustrations. "If you cared, you would have at least held them once," she accused, her words ringing with accusation. Lord Círdan's patience finally reached its limit as their argument spiraled out of control. "Enough!" he boomed, his voice cutting through the heated exchange. "Take them away, and check on their children."

With a firm command, he directed his attendants to remove Meluwen and Arion from his presence, his heart heavy with sorrow for the children caught in the midst of their parents' callousness. Lord Círdan paced the hall, his mind consumed with a tumult of emotions. He struggled to quell the rising tide of anger and disappointment that threatened to overwhelm him.As he waited for the reports on their children to come in, Lord Círdan's thoughts turned to the wider implications of Arion and Meluwen's actions. How could such callous individuals live within his haven, among his people? The realization that he had failed to protect his young, helpless subjects from the cruelty of their own kin weighed heavily upon him.

Finally a report came to him. The news only served to deepen his sense of dismay. Four of their children had already reached adulthood and had chosen to make lives of their own, far removed from the influence of their parents. Three had sought refuge in the sanctuary of Lothlórien and Rivendell. While the fourth one had found solace in the role of a librarian on the outskirts of the Grey Havens. Yet, it was the fate of the two youngest children that struck Lord Círdan the hardest. At ages 140 and 170, they had been left in the care of their grandparents, where they appeared to have found happiness and stability. Their grandparents were poor shoemakers yet they managed to provide for both of them. The contrast between their fate and that of their abandoned sibling only served to underscore the cruelty of Arion and Meluwen's decision. Lord Círdan's fists clenched at his sides as he grappled with the knowledge that Arion and Meluwen had been surrounded by elves who could have readily taken in their child, yet they had chosen to abandon him to his fate. It was a betrayal that cut to the core of his beliefs in compassion and justice, leaving him with a sense of bitter regret and resolve to ensure that such injustice would not go unpunished. He almost threw the report on table, scaring the servant. He angrily left the room trying to calm himself down. His feet wandered amongst the halls till he absentmindedly reached the infirmary.

Lord Círdan's heart softened as he beheld the sleeping form of Êl in the crib. His peacefull face was like a small sliver of peace amidst the turmoil of the day. Gently, he lifted the infant into his arms, cradling him close as he marveled at the subtle improvements in the child's condition. Êl's skin, once inflamed and raw, now bore the faint semblance of elven complexion. His eyes, though still weary, no longer held the same depths of exhaustion. Lord Círdan dared to hope for brighter days ahead. Êl's inability to open his eyes or respond to sound after eleven days in the infirmary was a cause for concern. It seemed like he might have permanently lost his senses. Feeding Êl had proven to be another obstacle . His injured organs struggled to process milk and water without causing him to vomit. In the initial days, the medical staff had resorted to regular chest compressions to aid his breathing, a painful process that left him in distress. Despite their efforts to comfort him, there was little they could do to ease his suffering. As Lord Círdan brushed his cheek, Êl stirred, a faint murmur escaping his lips in response to the gentle touch. It was a small but significant victory. It was a evidence that the child was beginning to respond to the world around him. Though his progress was slow and tentative, each step forward filled Lord Círdan with a renewed sense of determination and hope. As Lord Círdan cradled Êl in his arms, a sense of awe and wonder washed over him as he gazed into the child's eyes. It felt like a miracle, seeing Êl stare back at him. His eyes open and unfocused but nonetheless filled with a glimmer of life. Without pausing, Lord Círdan called for Rondir, the healer who had been tirelessly caring for Êl since the beginning.

Rondir's smile spoke volumes. With gentle hands, Rondir carefully examined Êl's senses, noting each small movement and reaction with keen interest. To their surprise, as Rondir laid Êl down, the infant attempted to turn his head as if searching for Lord Círdan's comforting presence. A smile tugged at Lord Círdan's lips, his heart swelling with joy at the sight. As Rondir continued to assess Êl's remaining senses, it became apparent that while the child still did not respond to sound, his ability to open his eyes marked a significant milestone in his recovery. Though there were undoubtedly many challenges still ahead, Lord Círdan found solace in the knowledge that Êl was making progress, step by step, towards a brighter future.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

As Lord Círdan hugged Êl close, he couldn't help but marvel at the remarkable transformation the child had undergone in just five months. Though still fragile, Êl had grown significantly in size, a testament to his resilience and the dedicated care he had received. Notably, he was beginning to respond to sounds. Lord Círdan observed with joy as the child turned his head at the sound of familiar voices. His attempts to gurgle and coo served as a heartwarming indication of his growing awareness of the world around him. In that tender moment, as Lord Círdan cradled Êl in his arms, he couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity that washed over him. The child's dark eyes and pale complexion stirred memories of his own son, long gone but never forgotten. Though he may never admit it aloud, watching Elen progress and thrive reminded Lord Círdan of the joy and wonder of parenthood.

Meanwhile, Arion and Meluwen languished in jail. When Êl's grandparents expressed a desire to take him in, Lord Círdan dismissed the notion, unwilling to burden elves who already had their hands full. He couldn't in good conscience impose the care of a very sickly elfling on elves who can barely sustain a family of four. Instead, Lord Círdan turned his attention to ensuring the safety of the other elflings, deploying a spy to gather reports on their well-being. Thankfully, they seemed to be faring relatively well. Lord Círdan also reached out to Meluwen's other children, hoping to offer them some semblance of familial support. However, they politely declined any contact with their family members, leaving Êl feeling utterly alone in the world.

During this time, Lord Círdan has been tirelessly working on improving laws to protect children in the Grey Haven. Lord Círdan also made a decision. He would keep Êl, the child he had nurtured back from the brink of death. In many ways, they were both alone in the world, devoid of immediate family. But in each other, they found a newfound sense of belonging and purpose.

As he was musing Lumion came to the halls and spoke gently, "Greetings my lord. Here is the copy of amended laws "

" Put it on the table, Lumion." Círdan said, " And go to Census and write Harthael under the section of my children's names "

My Lord? , Lumion asked.

"This one," Lord Círdan said cooing at Êl, "will be my son from now on and will be known as Harthael. And, yes, bring me the adoption paper too. "

Lumion couldn't help but smile. He said cheerfully," Of course my lord! I'll be right back."

Lord Círdan smilled and tapped Êl nose gently making Êl scrunch his face. Lord Círdan chuckled, "Little one, I have matter to attend to. Take a nap with nanny. Ada will be back in evening."

Taglist @asianbutnotjapanese @bobitoo08 @crazed-flower

Tagging @imagine-all-the-elves because it was inspired by the post on their blog.

#cirdan #cirdan imagines #elves #fanfiction #the silmarillion #oneshot #tw:babies #tw: injury #tw: babies #loved it #a cool combination of dark and hopeful #a bunch of kudoses here

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