The morning mists over the Gulf of Lhûn had not yet dispersed when the first ray of dawn speared through the clouds and spilled across the sea, turning the waters to molten gold.
At the far rim of the horizon, the vast fleet began to stir. From that distant line of shadow, two thousand great ships slipped out and turned toward the bay, the once-blurred smudge upon the sea sharpening with unsettling speed.
At first it was only a continuous wall of sail, like a silver mountain range suddenly risen from the depths.
Moments later, the silhouettes of two thousand vessels broke through the pale fog. Upon their sails, white star-crests flared to life in the sunlight, until it seemed that the whole Gulf of Lhûn had been roofed over with a second, living sky of stars.
"It is Lindon's banner! Gil-galad's Star-king standard! I know that sigil, I once followed it into battle!"
Thousands of Lindon Elves erupted in cheers, waving toward the advancing host of ships. Ancient elven hymns rose like tides along the shore, weaving together with the crash of waves into a vast, unseen net of sound that seemed to cover all the land.
The fleet came ever nearer. The figures upon the decks were clearly visible now.
They wore the traditional white robes of Lindon, hemmed and trimmed with silver. Many cradled bouquets of freshly gathered flowers in their arms, petals still wet with dawn's dew, glimmering like tiny jewels in the new light.
When the prow of the flagship struck the first near-cresting wave, Gil-galad, standing at the bow, raised his hand slightly.
His voice rang out clear: "All hands, prepare to make shore!"
In an instant, every sail shifted as one. Two thousand great ships moved like a single, immense being, guided by invisible hands. They curved along the arc of the bay, hulls drawing together until they lay almost side by side, tracing a shining crescent of guardianship upon the sea.
The sea-wind tugged at the High King's silver hair, setting it streaming behind him. The black cloak upon his shoulders was edged with golden thread that caught and flowed with the light. The face that had once been scorched by Sauron's black fire in the Last Alliance was now, in this second life, restored to its ancient fairness; only a faint scar along his brow remained, like a deliberately kept badge of honor.
A roar shook the shoreline.
Some Elves drew their swords and held them high, blades scattering the sunlight into a thousand points of brilliance. Others put war-horns to their lips, horns that had lain silent for a thousand years, and blew a call in which triumph and weeping were braided together. More simply fell to their knees, sobbing openly; they had waited for this day too long—through three entire millennia.
As the great ships ground softly against the stone quays, boarding ramps crashed down in a thunderous sequence.
One vessel after another locked into place. Two hundred thousand Elves stood upon their decks, and as one they lifted their voices in greeting to the kin awaiting them on shore, their combined cry drowning even the breaking surf.
The first to land were Gil-galad's royal guard.
They wore silver mail chased with star-patterns, sapphire-set spearheads gleaming in their hands. Their marching was so precise it seemed the very ground must have been measured with a compass for their feet.
This was a legendary host: warriors who had marched in the Last Alliance, who had won such merit in battle that, after death, they had been released from the Halls of Mandos to serve Gil-galad once more.
They spread across the broad harbour square with practiced ease, forming rank upon rank. Spearpoints tilted toward the sky, becoming a glittering wall of light and steel.
Only then did Gil-galad set foot upon the land.
At the instant his boots touched stone, a beam of radiance fell from the White Sacred Tree upon the summit of the Blue Mountains, spearing down through mist and cloud until it rested upon him alone.
Through the Tree, the land itself was greeting its returning lord.
Círdan the Shipwright, one of the eldest of the Eldar, stepped forward in person as the High King passed through the lines of the guard. In his hands he bore a great silver tray, and upon it lay a circlet of white metal and star-bright gems, veiled in soft cloth.
The old Elf's weathered face was creased by a smile that trembled faintly at the edges. He lifted the tray and held it out.
On it, the crown of the High King of Lindon, wrought of silver and studded with diamonds, shone like captured starlight. It had been sealed away since Gil-galad's death three thousand years before, a relic of a fallen age. Now, with his return, it had come back into the light.
"Welcome home, my King," Círdan said, and his voice caught slightly on the final word.
Gil-galad took up the crown and set it upon his head. The light of the gems mingled with the sheen of his hair, so that for a moment he seemed ringed in a halo of living radiance.
Seeing this, Círdan drew a deep breath and cried out:
"Our King has returned! Bow before the High King of the Elves of the West!"
Upon the ships, upon the quays, along the city walls, hundreds of thousands of Elves went down on one knee in a single, rippling motion.
Gil-galad's gaze swept across the faces before him—some familiar, some bearing the lines of age and battle; others young, but with echoes of their sires and grandsires in the set of their jaws or the gleam in their eyes. Here were warriors who had once followed him into fire; there, the children of those warriors, wearing the same proud look.
"My people," he said.
The words were not shouted, yet somehow they carried, clear and unmistakable, over the roar of the sea and the murmuring throng. Even those still quietly weeping fell silent; for a heartbeat, it seemed that even the surf hushed.
"I once believed that the starlight of Lindon had sunk forever into the ashes of the Last Alliance," he went on. "That the age of the Elves in Middle-earth would truly end with the close of the Third Age.
"But when I stood before the Halls of Mandos in Aman, I saw the stars of Middle-earth still keeping a place in their courses for Lindon. Then I knew this: we had never truly departed."
His eyes shone like twin bright stars.
"Today, two hundred thousand Elves of Lindon return to our ancient home. We are the first to come back, but we shall not be the last.
"We will rekindle the star of Lindon, until its light shines again over all Eriador.
"We will restore the forests that the Dark has burned, renew the old oaths, and upon this soil we shall once more stand between darkness and the free peoples.
"We will fight until our last breath, and we will never bow!"
"Never bow!"
"Never bow!"
A single shout thundered from a million throats. Swords, spears, banners, some even lifted their children high, all were raised toward the sky. The sheer force of the cry seemed to strike the clouds themselves and tear them apart.
"Come ashore," Gil-galad called. "Come home!"
At his word, two hundred thousand Lindon Elves poured onto the land like the returning tide.
The great ceremony of the King's return surged to its height.
Flowers spun and drifted through the air; songs braided and echoed above Grey Havens; hunters dove from the quays into the bright water and soon came back with strings of silvered fish flashing in the sun.
Maidens unrolled long linen cloths upon hastily assembled trestle tables, and soon those tables were covered with honeyed figs, chilled fruits beaded with dew, and loaves of almond bread still steaming from the ovens.
Minstrels tuned harps and long flutes; their music wound together with the murmur of waves until even the seabirds circling overhead refused to leave, wheeling and crying as if caught by the joy that saturated the air.
No one could say how long this feast would endure. Judging by the scene before them, a day or two would scarcely suffice.
Envoys from all the kingdoms of Middle-earth had seldom known such leisure, and for once they allowed themselves to sink wholly into the Elves' revelry.
They sang, they danced, they drank deep and talked louder.
Kaen did not hurry to seek out Gil-galad.
For the moment, he walked at ease through the great festival, his two wives at his side, Artemis tall and radiant as a living Maia, Arwen fair and shining beneath the White Tree's remembered light. Together they let themselves be carried by the warmth and joy that rolled through the harbor like a bright tide.
And then, cutting across the music and the laughter, a voice rang out behind them, full of delight, of barely contained excitement, and something like trembling urgency:
"Arwen—my daughter!"