Work Text:
The scent of salt and pine is always strong in the air at the Grey Havens. It is the scent of memory — of Balar, sunk beneath the waves; and of Sirion, ravaged and burned. Few remain now who still remember them. The mortals are long buried, and the elves are following the rivers, and emptying out into the sea.
Cirdan remains rooted, even as more trees are felled for the ships’ tinder. It is more than memory that holds him here.
But he knows that one day even he will be called to the farthest shore. And when he finally lifts the last ship’s anchor, only the pine trees will remain to remember the elves.