A messenger arrived today, urging his mount swiftly past the shipyard and up the road towards Hîr Círdan’s house. The workers ceased their singing and set aside their tools to gather and follow him, and we crafters likewise left our workshops to join the procession. Exchanging glances with each other, we could not hide our dread. The messenger’s troubled visage as well as the evident haste with which he had travelled betokened no joyful communication.
As the people of Mithlond stood about in the great courtyard, the messenger dismounted and Círdan emerged to hear him. The messenger spoke to our lord, but loudly enough so that those gathered could also hear. He had come from Imladris, to summon our lord to a meeting of the White Council there. The wise being whom we called Mithrandir had discovered that the Necromancer of Dol Guldur was, in truth, Sauron, our old enemy re-embodied. At this, some of those watching gasped in dismay, but I felt only sadness. Nae Eruchín! Ever and ever evil is vanquished, only to return to trouble the world!
As my apprentice, Oltanwë, and I returned to our workshop, he began to speak to me of his great fear. His father had taken part in the assault on the realm of Angmar and had seen there the depths of cruelty to which an evil will can sink. And yet the Witch-King was but a lieutenant of Sauron, weaker by far than the Black Lord! As my apprentice spoke on (he was often garrulous, but I had not the heart to check his outpourings) I could only think of my beloved king, Ereinion Gil-galad, and of the sacrifice that he had made in the attempt to defeat Sauron completely. With the victory of his Alliance of elves and men it had seemed that Sauron had been forever crushed, giving some purpose to the loss of our Gil-galad, and of the Númenorean lord, Elendil, and of the tens of thousands of their brave followers.
And so it goes. Hîr Círdan will depart in the morning, while we his people strive to master our dread and continue with our daily tasks.