Becoming One with the Falmari of Alóquandë
The day Alcaron departed from Aulë's halls was one of quiet reflection. The forges that had once been his home, glowing with molten light and ringing with the sound of hammer on anvil, faded behind him as he followed the Falmari envoy toward the western shores of Aman. Though he had crafted many things of great beauty in the halls of Aulë, he had never before felt the pull of the sea. It was a world foreign to him, one of fluidity rather than stability, of rhythm and tide rather than the steady permanence of stone.
As the envoy led him closer to the coast, a new scent filled his senses—salt and the crisp breath of the open waters. It was different from the deep, earthen smell of the smithies, lighter, wilder, and uncontained. The air was filled with the distant cries of gulls, and with every step, the murmur of waves against the shore grew louder. Then, as they crested the final rise, Alcaron beheld Alóquandë for the first time.
The city of the Falmari shimmered in the golden light of Laurelin and Telperion. Its pearl-like structures rose from the shore, shaped by hands both elven and divine, their surfaces reflecting hues of silver, blue, and white. The waters that lapped at its edges seemed to glow with their own inner light, ever-moving yet calm, like a song sung in a voice beyond mortal reckoning.
Olwë himself stood at the head of a gathering, his presence both regal and warm. The king of the Falmari bore the light of the sea in his eyes, an ancient wisdom that had been carried across the waves of time. Beside him stood his kin, mariners and shipwrights, their garments flowing like the waves themselves. They greeted Alcaron not as a stranger but as a brother from afar, welcoming him with words that carried the cadence of the ocean.
A dwelling was prepared for him by the shore, a place of rest and contemplation. It was unlike anything he had known—built of wood and shell rather than stone, its walls breathing with the tide. That first night, as he lay upon the soft woven bedding, he listened. The rhythmic lull of the waves was a strange melody, one without beginning or end, endless as time itself.
Yet, despite the beauty of this place, Alcaron felt a weight upon him. Here, among the Falmari, he was no longer a craftsman of the forge. He was a wanderer among sailors, a shaper of stone in a realm where all things flowed. It was an unfamiliar feeling—one he did not yet know how to embrace.
The first years in Alóquandë were a slow transformation, as the rhythms of the sea wove their way into Alcaron's life. At first, he watched more than he acted, observing the ways of the Falmari, trying to grasp their customs and the art they lived by.
The Falmari were not merely sailors but singers, their voices blending with the sound of the waves as if they were one. Unlike the deep, thunderous echoes of Aulë's forges, their music was soft yet powerful, woven into the very fabric of their existence. They sang as they worked, as they sailed, and even as they rested by the shores under the light of the Trees.
One evening, as Alcaron sat upon a smooth stone by the shore, he listened as a group of mariners sang of the past—of the Great Journey, of Elwë lost to the stars, and of the sorrow that had followed them even to these shores. Their voices rose and fell with the tide, blending with the wind and the distant call of the gulls.
"Our song is not only of the past," said one of the singers, noticing Alcaron's fascination. "It is of the present, and the future, and the voice of the sea itself. Listen long enough, and you will hear the music of all things."
And so he did. Slowly, he learned their songs, and in time, he too wove his own melodies into the air, shaping harmonies that spoke of fire and stone, tempered by the gentle patience of the water.
Of all the skills he sought to master, sailing was the most foreign to him. The Swan-Ships of the Falmari were unlike anything he had crafted, their white hulls seeming to glide upon the water as if alive. They were made not with the rigid precision of the forge but with a deep understanding of the currents and the winds.
Olwë's sons, skilled shipwrights, took it upon themselves to teach him. From them, he learned to bend wood without breaking it, to shape the prow of a vessel as one would carve a song into the wind. The process was slow, for his hands, so used to the unyielding nature of stone and metal, struggled at first to work with a material that lived and breathed.
"Wood is not lifeless, nor is it weak," they told him. "It bends because it is strong, just as the waves shape the shore without breaking it."
He came to understand this truth, though not easily. Many times, his early attempts ended in failure—cracked beams, warped planks, sails that caught too much wind or not enough. But failure was a forge of its own, and with each mistake, he learned.
At first, Alcaron did not take to the sea as the Falmari did. His heart belonged to the hills and plains, to the solid earth beneath his feet. The rolling waves unsettled him, the vastness of the ocean a thing unknowable and shifting. But the sea was patient, and so were his teachers.
Bit by bit, he learned its ways. He swam in the shallows, feeling the pull of the currents. He dived beneath the waves, discovering the hidden world beneath, where coral grew like the veins of the land and fish darted like silver arrows. He walked the shore at dawn and dusk, his feet sinking into wet sand as the tides whispered their endless stories.
Then, one night, as he stood upon a high outcropping of rock, the sea spoke to him in a voice not of words but of sensation. The wind lifted his hair, and the tide moved in rhythm with his breath. He closed his eyes and listened. In that moment, he understood—the sea was not his enemy, nor was it beyond his grasp. It was, like all things, a force to be learned, to be respected, and in time, to be loved.
As the years passed, Alcaron's hands grew accustomed to the ways of wood and water. At first, he had struggled, his instincts trained in the unyielding nature of stone and metal. Wood, he had learned, did not submit in the same way. It was alive, supple, and bore its own will—one that could not simply be forced but must be understood.
Under the guidance of Olwë's sons, he delved into the intricate craft of shipbuilding. He learned to select the right timber, shaping it with patience rather than force. He studied the curving ribs of the swan-ships, their hulls designed to dance upon the waves rather than cut through them with brute strength. He tested sailcloth woven by Falmari hands, feeling the way the wind caught and played within its fibers.
In time, Alcaron developed his own designs, drawing upon the knowledge he had gained from Aulë as well as the fluid artistry of the Falmari and the beauty of Nature from Yavanna. He sought to create something new—a vessel unlike any before it. His ship would carry the strength of stone but the lightness of wood, a harmony of earth and sea.
For years he labored, experimenting with materials and forms. He reinforced the frame with an unknown method he had devised, binding it with a substance neither fully stone nor wood made with the help of his magic, as if the spirit of the earth had softened to embrace the waves. The ship was sleek, swift, and strong, its pale wood gleaming under the light of the Two Trees. It bore no swan's head upon its prow, as was the custom of the Falmari, but rather a form unseen before—a crest that echoed the meeting of wave and shore, as if the sea itself had shaped it.
When at last it was complete, he took it out upon the water. The vessel responded to the wind and tide as though it had a spirit of its own. The Falmari watched in quiet awe as he guided it across the bay, a silent testament to his years of learning and toil.
It was then that Alcaron knew: he had not only built a ship. He had forged a bond with the sea itself.
One night, long after the others had gone to rest, Alcaron set sail alone upon the waters. The stars above shone cold and clear, and the great expanse of the ocean stretched before him, vast and unknowable. The light of Telperion shimmered upon the waves, casting silver trails upon the black depths.
As he drifted beyond the bay, the world grew quiet. The winds fell still, and the waters ceased their restless movement. It was not the silence of emptiness but something greater, something waiting. A presence stirred in the deep, vast and ancient, one that had always been there, unseen and unshaped, like the breath of the ocean itself.
Then, in the whisper of the waves and the distant song of whales, he heard it.
Alcaron.
The voice was not spoken, yet it filled the air around him, carried by the gentle undulation of the tide. It was the voice of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, whose form no eye could see, whose realm was the restless deep.
"The world is shifting," the voice murmured, rising like the tide. "The waters carry tidings beyond these shores. The days of peace shall not last forever."
Alcaron's heart quickened, but he did not answer, for what could be said before such a presence?
"You have shaped the gifts of Aulë to meet the ways of the sea," Ulmo continued, "but the time will come when your craft must serve more than beauty. Will you be ready when the waves call you beyond Valinor?"
A shiver passed through him, though the air was warm. He had thought himself content in Alóquandë, at peace among the Falmari. Yet now, with the voice of the Sea-Lord in his ears, a great uncertainty stirred in him.
Before he could form a thought, the water surged suddenly beneath his ship. It did not toss him but lifted him gently, carrying him forward as though the sea itself had reached out to bear him in its grasp. The ship glided effortlessly back toward the shore, and as he neared the land, the wind returned, whispering through the sails.
The presence receded, and the waters returned to their ceaseless motion.
Alcaron stood upon the deck, breathless. He had heard the voice of a Vala, and though he did not yet know what it meant, he understood one thing: his time in Alóquandë was not the end of his journey.
The next day, still shaken by the encounter, Alcaron sought the counsel of Olwë. He found the king upon the high terraces overlooking the sea, where the white gulls wheeled and cried upon the wind.
Olwë listened as Alcaron spoke of Ulmo's words, his expression calm, his eyes unreadable. When Alcaron had finished, the lord of the Falmari gazed out over the waters, his voice quiet but firm.
"The sea does not hold its children forever," he said. "Even the greatest mariner must one day leave the shore behind."
Alcaron frowned. "But this is a land of peace. What lies beyond these shores but darkness and uncertainty?"
Olwë sighed. "Once, we too thought we had found our journey's end. When we set foot upon these shores, we believed we had reached our final home. But the sea remembers all things, and it does not forget those we left behind."
He turned to Alcaron, his gaze heavy with memory. "Long ago, my brother Elwë was lost to us, and many of our kin remained in Middle-earth. When Nowë—whom the Noldor would call Círdan—sought him, he too did not return. Now only I came here to Aman, with but a part of our people. The sea calls us still, for half of our kindred dwell in the lands beyond the Sundering Seas."
Alcaron felt the weight of those words. He had lived among the Falmari for decades, learning their ways, but he had never before considered the sorrow that lay beneath their songs. Even in Valinor, where peace was undisturbed, the echo of loss remained.
"Ulmo's voice does not come without cause," Olwë continued. "Perhaps you are meant for more than the shaping of ships. Perhaps the time will come when you must sail them into the unknown."
Alcaron was silent for a long moment. He thought of the ship he had built, of the voice in the waves, of the restless stirrings within him. At last, he bowed his head.
"I do not yet know my path," he admitted. "But I will listen."
Olwë placed a hand upon his shoulder, his touch light as the wind. "Then you are already upon it."
Thus, the years continued, and Alcaron remained in Alóquandë, perfecting his craft. Yet the words of Ulmo and Olwë stayed with him, lingering like the distant call of the tide. He knew now that his hands were not meant only for the shaping of beauty, but for something greater.
By his fortieth year in Alóquandë, Alcaron was no longer a mere student of the Falmari—he had become one of them. Though his heart still carried the forge-fire of Aulë, his hands had grown deft with the workings of wood and sail, and his ears had attuned to the music of the waves. He spoke their tongue as if born to it, his voice blending into their songs, and he had learned the ways of the sea so well that he could read its moods in the rippling of the currents.
No longer did he stumble in the construction of ships; now, the bending of timber and the setting of the mast came as naturally to him as hammering steel had once been. He sailed not only by the stars but by the feel of the wind upon his skin, the breath of Ulmo guiding his course. When storms rose from the deeps, he did not fear them but met them as an equal, riding the fury of the ocean as the Falmari did.
His own vessel, the ship he had labored over for decades, was now counted among the finest in Alóquandë's fleet. It bore no name, for he had not yet decided its fate, but the Falmari whispered that it was blessed—that Ulmo himself had guided its making. Its hull, neither purely of wood nor stone, carried a gleam beneath the light of the Trees, as if the sea had left its mark upon it. Many marveled at it, but Alcaron knew its purpose was not yet fulfilled.
Yet, despite all he had gained, he could not forget Ulmo's voice on that fateful night years ago. The world is shifting. The words echoed in his heart, like the tide pulling ever away from the shore.
It was in his seventieth year in Alóquandë that the time came at last to leave.
One evening, as Alcaron stood at the water's edge, watching the gentle lapping of the waves, a strange feeling overcame him. The air grew heavy with a presence unseen, and the sea, though calm, seemed to stir with unseen purpose. A whisper rode upon the wind, a song woven into the tide, and Alcaron knew.
He waded into the waters, feeling the salt sting his skin, and knelt as the sea swirled about him. The song of the deep rose around him, and for the second time in his life, he heard the voice of Ulmo.
"You have learned the ways of the sea," the voice murmured, vast as the ocean itself. "Now you must carry them with you always."
A current wrapped around him, and as he lifted his hands, something brushed against his palm. A strand of deep green seaweed, glowing faintly with an inner light, coiled around his fingers. As he touched it, he felt warmth, a pulse like the beating of a great heart.
"A token," Ulmo's voice continued, "of what you have become. Water and stone are not enemies but kin. Let this be your guide upon the tides to come."
The sea withdrew, the presence fading, but the gift remained. Alcaron held the enchanted strand, knowing it bore the blessing of the Lord of Waters. Whatever lay ahead, Ulmo's favor would follow him.
The Falmari, sensing the change in Alcaron, did not question it. They had always known the sea does not keep those it loves forever. When he spoke to Olwë of his decision, the king nodded, his gaze filled with both pride and sorrow.
"Then the time has come," Olwë said. "But know this, Alcaron—though destiny calls you onward, you shall always have a home in this city and amongst its people."
A great feast was held in his honor, the white halls of Alóquandë filled with music and laughter. The Falmari gathered to bid him farewell, offering gifts of pearl and coral, silver fishhooks and woven nets, small tokens of the life he had shared with them.
At last, Olwë himself stepped forward, placing around Alcaron's neck a pendant of white pearl, set in silver. "This marks you as a friend of the sea," he said. "Wear it, and those who love the ocean will know you as one of their own."