The seagulls cried as they soared into the sky, while white waves and sandy shores appeared in the distance.

Mithlond, the Grey Havens, was built at the mouth of the river Lhûn in the Gulf of Lhûn, and had stood for more than six thousand years since its founding.

The lord here was Círdan the Shipwright, an Elf said to have been born in the Years of the Trees, older than any other Elf still dwelling in Middle-earth.

He was so ancient that, unlike most Elves, his appearance had taken on that of an aged man, unique in all of Middle-earth.

When an immortal Elf grows a grey beard, and his hair turns silver-white, it is a true sign of great age, so great, perhaps, that he had witnessed the history of all the Ages.

The withering of the Two Trees, the wars of Morgoth and the Valar, the drowning of Beleriand beneath the western sea, the rise and growth of Sauron, the War of the Last Alliance…

And now, all that Garrett had recently accomplished.

“Welcome, new legend, Garrett.”

When Garrett arrived at the gates of the Grey Havens, Círdan the Shipwright came forth to greet him.

The Elf was tall of stature, with a long beard and a face deeply lined with age, yet his eyes remained clear and piercing.

He looked at Garrett, bowed slightly, and said, “It is an honor to have you here. I have awaited your coming for some time.”

“Things delayed me over the years. Only recently did I find the opportunity.”

Garrett dismounted and returned the bow, handing the reins to another Elf who had come alongside Círdan to receive him.

His horse would be well cared for.

“It matters not,” Círdan replied, clasping Garrett’s hand in greeting.

Though he appeared as an aged man, his movements were steady and vigorous. Beneath his robes, the outline of his frame rivaled even that of Thengel in his prime.

This ancient one was far from frail. So tall was he that even Garrett had to raise his head to meet his gaze. His height was easily more than seven feet.

One could imagine such an Elf wielding a great blade, striding into an army of orcs averaging barely five feet tall, and with a single sweep scattering them like autumn leaves.

“This is not the place for discourse. Shall we go within and rest awhile?”

“That would be welcome.”

Simply and without ceremony, the two walked down the stone-paved road into the heart of the city.

This seaside settlement was planted with many birches and poplars. As the season grew colder, the leaves of the poplars had turned, casting the roadsides in golden light.

The Grey Havens possessed its own quiet beauty.

Thus the lord of the Havens and its guardian, Círdan the Shipwright, together with Garrett the fortress-builder, walked through the city in its entirety, taking in its sights.

When they reached the harbor, Círdan could not help but gaze westward, his eyes filled with longing and yearning.

“To be bound by duty to one’s people is to struggle with oneself.”

“In Valinor lies all that I hold most dear. The yearning for that land pains me deeply, and yet I cannot depart, for I am bound by the will of the Valar. Only when the last of the Elves sets sail westward shall I too board a ship.”

“Long have I lingered on these mortal shores, and still the end of this tale does not appear.”

“But now…”

He turned his gaze upon Garrett.

Perhaps the ending was finally drawing near.

“Likely not much longer,” Garrett replied casually.

Yet to Círdan’s ears, the words carried deeper meaning.

“Thousands of years ago, when Mithrandir first arrived at the Grey Havens, I gave him Narya. Perhaps it might ease his weariness and kindle hope in dark places.”

“And now you have come here, yet I have nothing left of such worth to give.”

Círdan turned his eyes from the sea back to Garrett and said, “If there is anything I can do, pray do not hesitate to ask.”

“There is, actually.”

Before the harbor, gazing at a newly-launched white ship, Garrett said, “Círdan the Shipwright, I need your craft.”

In truth, in that sentence he had spoken Círdan’s title twice, for “Círdan” itself meant “shipwright.” He bore the name because of his unmatched skill in that art.

“I am at your service,” Círdan replied.

The golden-red light of the setting sun shimmered upon the waves, casting the two figures into silhouette.

Círdan agreed to the request.

In the autumn of the year 2948, a chronicler at Wayfort recorded: “The lord departed westward, and for a full month did not return.”

“It seems he truly never came back,” the chronicler murmured to himself.

But this time, there was genuine business at hand.

—

[Crafting Recipes for “Shipwright” Unlocked]

For an entire month, Garrett remained at Círdan’s side, personally taking part in the construction of vessels.

During the process, a new crafting system was unlocked, many new recipes appeared in his crafting interface, all belonging to the various components of ships.

The helm, the anchor, navigation instruments, the skeletal frame… Seeing each new recipe displayed, Garrett could not help but marvel.

Having been entrusted by the Valar themselves, Círdan’s mastery of shipbuilding was beyond question. Even Númenor’s sailing and shipcraft had been taught by him, and Gondor’s fleets still bore traces of his influence.

Whoosh.

The waves crashed upon the rocks.

An Elf, gazing at a newly finished ship component upon the workbench, could not hide the wonder in his eyes.

“My lord, this piece approaches perfection itself,” he exclaimed.

“Perfection exists only in Valinor,” Círdan corrected gently.

Yet when he drew closer and saw the part the Elf indicated, he fell silent.

It was too precise, the very ideal form, flawless in every aspect.

What craft was this? Was this still Middle-earth?

“This was wrought by Lord Garrett.”

“Ah. Then it makes sense.”

Círdan nodded thoughtfully.

“Where is he now?”

“At the harbor.”

Once assured of Garrett’s whereabouts, Círdan set off toward the docks without delay.

A month earlier, when Garrett had first requested to learn the art of shipbuilding, he had agreed at once, giving him detailed instruction in every aspect.

When the lessons of theory and practice were complete, he assigned him a modest task: to build a boat fit for two or three passengers.

“If there is aught you do not understand, you may come to me at any time,” Círdan had told him.

But though he had spoken these words, Garrett never once came to seek guidance.

Perhaps this new legend is simply reserved by nature, Círdan had thought.

But after seeing the flawless component just now, his assessment began to shift.

Perhaps he ought to see with his own eyes how his student fared in this first attempt.

Even as he pondered this, before reaching the harbor, he suddenly halted, his gaze fixed upon the water in stunned silence.

In the light of the setting sun, a massive shadow stretched long across the waves, so vast it even darkened the houses nearby.

He drew in a sharp breath and pressed forward.

“Good evening,” Garrett greeted him while finishing another component, looking up with a smile.

“You’re here a bit early. The ship isn’t fully assembled yet, so she won’t sail. Come back around this time tomorrow, by then I should have the final step complete, and I’ll be able to give you a proper demonstration.”

As he spoke, Garrett stretched and patted the enormous form beside him.

“By the grace of Eru…”

Círdan finally recovered from his astonishment.

“I told you to craft a small boat, to test what you had learned, and you…”

He lifted his head, eyes wide with amazement.

There, moored at Garrett’s side, loomed a colossal vessel, one that even Círdan himself could only describe as a flagship of the mightiest fleet.

—

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Completed at Chapter 405!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep