This is a work of fan fiction. There will be no monetary renumeration made from it.

Castamir was a noble of Gondor who led the losing faction in a civil war known as the Kinstrife.

The orchestra of the dawn joyously heralded the birth of the new day. Sparrows and finches sang a steady, melodic rhythm while a lark, a virtuoso soloist, soared above the others as dawn crept upon the abandoned, burned out farm.

A whirling grindstone hummed in steady rhythm with the avian chorus. Closer inspection found a tall, slender, sandy-haired woman bent over it, a look of intense concentration upon her face as she drew a shining blade along the edge of the stone.

She was no longer young, though her features were even and fit together well enough to be considered attractive. Her face bore the marks of hardwon character that only comes with time and experience. She wore a plain homespun shirt that hung shapelessly from her shoulders and an equally nondescript pair of trousers.

Nothing about her appearance was remotely outstanding or even interesting, save perhaps her boots. These were of very good quality, but had seen too many seasons of hard wear. They were patched in so many places that it was difficult to tell if any of the original leather remained.

Directly across from her, his boots miraculously clean even in the middle of the ash covered barnyard, stood a blond elf. He was fair to look upon, even for one of his kindred, his garments princely and clean, in startling contrast to Haleth's. Inglor was a High Elf of the House of Finarfin. He had accompanied Haleth on her journeys for several years and that was the sum total of her knowledge of his background. She thought of him alternately as her watchdog or her companion, depending on the circumstances and how badly he was annoying her.

Currently an expression of mild confusion graced his countenance, as if he could not fathom the reason for her actions.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Haleth demanded without raising her eyes from her work. "Haven't you ever seen anyone sharpening a sword before?"

"Yes," Inglor replied calmly. "But I have never seen you do it." He did not add that he had never seen the sword before, either. The weapon had obviously been made by his people; Elvish runes swirled along the blade, which caught the ruddy light of the rising sun so that it appeared blood-soaked. He knew by now that asking about its origins and how she had come into possession of it would be of no use, especially given Haleth's foul mood. He would have to search for fragments of information. Given time he was quite confident he would solve the mystery.

But not, apparently, today. His statement was met with a wordless grunt as Haleth continued with her task.

"Haleth," he said, his voice more melodic than the lark's. "Will you please allow me to do that for you?"

"Why?" she demanded sharply, lowering the weapon. The hum of the grindstone slowed as she stopped pumping the pedal, the better to glare at the elf. "Do you think I'm incapable of sharpening a sword?"

"I never said that." Inglor raised his hands as a token of surrender and took an involuntary step backwards. The conversation was quickly degenerating into the all too familiar pattern where everything that he said was taken as an insult.

"You think I'm entirely helpless without you," Haleth accused him.

"Well, no. Not entirely," he replied honestly and without thinking.

Haleth's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Inglor?" she asked in the deceptively sweet voice that heralded mayhem.

"Yes?" the elf asked politely.

Haleth pointed dramatically towards the half-collapsed shed where they had spent the night.

"Why don't you go and pack?" she asked.

"But I truly think it would benefit you if you allowed me to..." Inglor trailed off as Haleth stabbed the air repeatedly in the direction of the shed, using the sword for emphasis.

Recognising an already lost battle, Inglor sighed and made his silent way back to their makeshift camp.

~*~

The unlikely pair, elf and human, traipsed along the side of an abandoned country road. They deliberately kept close to the neglected hedge that ran along its side in case they needed to hide.

There was no need for stealth. Nothing save the birds and inscets made a sound in the empty countryside. A line of knee-high grass snaked down the centre of the road. Tough weeds poked through the hard packed earth where the passage of wagon wheels had made deep ruts. The hedge was occasionally broken, allowing them a view of burned-out, uninhabited ruins and overgrown fields.

"The forces of Mordor must have overrun this place," Inglor said sadly.

Haleth snorted.

"Inglor," she reminded him, her voice harsh. "We are in near to Umbar. Everyone around here is in the forces of Mordor."

The elf's brow furrowed into a deeper than usual frown of confusion and Haleth braced herself for a series of unwelcome questions about human behavior.

"Then who did this?" he asked when a gap in the hedge revealed yet another derelict farm. "The men of Gondor seldom venture this far south. And if they do, surely they come by sea. They would not attack this far inland."

"Of course Gondor comes by the sea," Haleth snapped. "The men of Gondor are not responsible for this."

"Then who was?" Inglor insisted, his face a mask of baffled sorrow. "The men of Harad? Surely the Dark Lord would not allow his servants to slay each other when they would be of far more use against the Men of the West?"

Haleth stopped dead in her tracks, clenching and relaxing her fists in an effort to control her spiralling temper.

"Firstly, this is Harad. The Haradrim conquered Umbar long ago. They have ruled it ever since, though they allow the old nobility their lands and laws.

"Secondly, the Black Numenoreans are men of the West. Their forefathers walked the Land of the Star just as surely as the forefathers of the Men of Gondor. There was a disagreement about the succession in Gondor several generations ago and their ancestors backed the wrong side.

"Thirdly, in my experience, the Dark Lord gives little thought to how his minions conduct themselves as long as they blindly obey his will and provide soldiers for his armies and slaves for his fields.

"If you want to know who is responsible for this devastation, you probably need look no further than Umbar itself. The ruling families have never taken well to the common people getting ideas, like refusing to send their sons for military service or complaining that their taxes are too high."

"But that makes no sense," Inglor said, baffled and saddened. "Why would they slaughter their own people?"

"As an example to keep the rest from getting similar ideas," said Haleth shortly. She marched away, cutting off any further conversation, Inglor following in silent bafflement.

The road bent sharply to the right and plunged down a steep ridge. A city of white towers and intricately decorated domes lay spread across the plain before them. A small forest of masts grew within the harbour, with ships of war and trader's vessels sitting side by side. The open sea sparkled, blue and white, beyond the harbour.

Inglor stared into the West, his expression inscrutible.

"Can you see it from here?" asked Haleth.

"I can see Umbar, and the ships in the harbour and the gulls as they swoop upon the fishermen's catches and the sea beyond that." His voice trailed off.

"You can go back," she said. "Once we obtain what we seek we will bring it to Cirdan. It will go West with the next ship to leave Mithlond. Nothing ties you here."

Inglor's blue eyes regarded her with a calm, deep intelligence. It was something Haleth expected to see in the eyes of all of the Eldar and which was usually missing from his gaze. She briefly wondered why Inglor was displaying it now and if he thought she was unaware of it. She dismissed the notion almost as soon as it occured to her, but there was nothing to take its place and Haleth was left wondering why, exactly, a Noldo would chose to act alarmingly naive while accompanying a penniless, gruff mortal around Middle-earth. It made no sense, even if the mortal did practice a most unusual trade.

Then the moment passed and Inglor resumed his typical mask of baffled guilelessness.

"How will we find it?" he asked.

"I will go into Umbar and make a few discrete inquiries," Haleth informed him. "You will stay hidden in the last farm at the top of this ridge until I come back."

"Are you certain that is wise?" he asked, looking mildly wounded at being excluded.

"Yes," she said firmly. Inglor meant well, but he was always more of a hindrance than a help.

"You will return to determine a plan for us to retrieve the sword?" he asked calmly.

Haleth chewed her lower lip and considered telling him no, she would get the artifact herself. In her experience, though, this was a wide, well paved road to disaster as Inglor would inevitably follow her and land both of them in trouble.

"I should be back within two days at the latest," she said.

"If you have not returned by the second evening, I will go in search of you," Inglor said tranquilly.

"Make it the third evening," Haleth said quickly, shuddering at the thought of the reaction of the Men of Umbar to the blond elf.

"The third evening, then," Inglor said with equanimity, giving Haleth a small smile by way of farewell.

~*~

Two days later, Haleth returned to the farm where she had instructed Inglor to await her. The sun set as she toiled along the abdanoned, heavily damage road that switchbacked up the ridge and she was forced to search for him in the darkness.

He was not in any of the burned-out buildings, which hardly suprised her; the stench of charred wood still hung heavily in the air.

She wandered through an overgrown vineyard, whispering Inglor's name to no avail. Twisted vines tore at her clothing and dug into her exposed skin.

Haleth was scratched and hot by the time she reached the opposite end of the vines. The babble of a small stream caught her attention and she headed towards it to refresh herself. The sound led her through a grove of olive trees, their branches heavily laden with fruit.

Inglor, seated on a stump, suddenly appeared directly before her.

Haleth blinked and stepped back, startled. She could have sworn there was no one there an instant ago; Inglor had simply materialised. Haleth wondered how often she thought she was alone when the elf was actually hovering nearby.

"You're early," he said pleasantly. "I was not expecting you for another day."

"Yes," Haleth said, dropping herself next to him to hide her surprise.

He wordlessly handed her a bowl filled with water and waited until she had drunk deeply and rested, her shoulders slumped in weariness.

"You should sleep," Inglor said softly.

"No," Haleth said shaking herself out of somulence.

"Is it that serious?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said uneasily. "It could be."

"What did you learn?"

"The leader of the Corsairs, a noble by the name of Gimilkar, is planning an invasion of Pelagir."

"They are planning another raid?" Inglor asked mildly. "They raid all of the time."

"Not a raid," Haleth corrected him, shaking her head. "An invasion."

"Haleth, the Corsairs are not stupid. They lack the strength to take and hold Pelagir."

"Very true. And they are aware of that. There are whispers that this Gimilkar will be coming into possession of a powerful artifact that will give his men an unbeatable advantage."

"So we find this Gimilkar's home, retrieve this artifact and go north," Inglor said with calm self-confidence.

"That is a good plan, but there are a few obstacles to consider," Haleth admitted, knuckling her eyes until bright lights danced before them. "Gimilkar apparently does not have this thing yet. He is on his ship, which is docked in the harbour, and is expecting it any day. Preparations for the invasion are finished. The only thing lacking is this artifact. Rumour is the fleet will leave as soon as it is in his possession."

"That does not give us much time," Inglor said calmly.

"It gives us no time at all," Haleth snapped, pulling herself to her feet. "We should leave at once."

"You should rest. Can it not wait until tomorrow?" Inglor asked.

"No," said Haleth stubbornly. "Where are our packs? There likely won't be time to resupply on the way out."

"I've restocked them as best I could," Inglor assured her, leading her further into the grove of olive trees.

They retrieved their supplies and headed towards the road. Haleth stopped to stare at the derelict ruins of the farmhouse and outbuildings.

"Gimilkar did this, you know," she told Inglor, her voice tight with barely contained fury. "Not himself, but he ordered it."

"All the more reason to hurry," Inglor said gently.

Crude paddles dipped into the harbour of Umbar. Both Inglor and Haleth were swathed in dark cloaks to better blend into the surrounding night. The moon had not yet risen and the strange, southern stars glittered like brilliant gems in the velvet blackness of the sky. Haleth knew their glimmering light would reflect in Inglor's eyes. She had spent more than enough time watching him when he was not aware of her scrutiny. Firmly resisting the temptation, to turn around, she squared her shoulders and thrust her paddle into the water.

She did not just want to look upon Inglor simply to admire his beauty. She desperately wanted to turn to him for strength and reassurance. Memories and self-doubt assailed her from every side and she half wished Ossë would send a tidal wave to swallow every ship in the harbour of Umbar, including her own small craft.

They approached the Raptor, Gimilkar's flagship, from the ocean side of the harbour. The proud vessel stood at anchor, bobbing gently on the harbour waves. If Haleth's information was correct, most of the crew was still ashore while Gimilkar himself was onboard, awaiting a messenger who bore a very powerful gift.

Their small, 'borrowed' crafted pulled along side of the Raptor with no outcry. A purr whispered through the sea air as a grappling hook whirled around Haleth's head. She released the hook and it sailed onto the deck of the Raptor. Inglor and Haleth waited in anxious silence, their faces tilted upwards, for a warning to be called or an arrow to fly at them.

When no attack came, Haleth carefully hauled on the rope until the hook caught. She quickly tested her weight on it. Without a word to Inglor, she scrambled, hand over hand, up the rope while walking up the hull.

She paused at the top, peering anxiously over the Raptor's side. There was no one in evidence. The rower's benches stood empty. There was no one at the wheel. The entire ship gave the impression of being deserted. Mindful that not every threat could be seen, Haleth scrambled over the railing, crouched between the rower's benches and wondered where everyone was.

Her question was answered almost immediately when a square of light pierced the darkness. Someone had opened the low door that led below deck. A dark figure stood outlined against the yellow light of a lantern.

"We trust that you can put the sword to good use." The voice was low and melodic and edged with menace. Haleth's spirit shrieked at the sound of it.  The speaker stepped onto the deck and was immediately joined by a second man.

"Fear not," answered his companion in the pompous, slightly shrill tone that the proud affect when confronted by something they fear. "When the Men of Gondor learn that I carry the Sword of Numenor, they will recognise me as the true heir to their kingdom."

"That may be true for some, Gimilkar, but the Men of Gondor have always had stiff necks. You may have to break a few heads to convince them properly."

"Breaking heads will be no problem with this," Gimilkar said, drawing his sword. The brilliant blade glimmered, deadly sharp, in the starlight.

Haleth, blinded by rage, reached up and tossed the grappling hook away from the side of the ship. It flew over the edge as though there was a weight attached to it. There was a soft splash of something hitting the water. 'This one is mine,' she thought with grim determination. 'I don't want the Elf's help.'

"What was that?" the first man asked at the disturbance of the water.

"Nothing," Gimilkar said dismissively as he examined his new blade. "A fish jumping for its dinner."

"I'm not so certain," the guest said. He approached the place where Haleth was huddled beneath the rower's bench.  Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword.

"You are just like the Haradrim, Ulfor," Gimilkar sneered. "They fear the Sea as well."

"Caution is not a sign of discomfort, Gimilkar," Ulfor said disdainfully. "Do not allow yourself to become overly confident simply because you hold a piece of metal."

"Do not take that tone of voice with me!" Gimilkar roared. Drawing himself to his full height, he towered over the Easterling and raised the weapon menacingly. The much shorter Ulfor momentarily quailed before him. 

"Mercy, Lord!" Ulfor cried, sinking to one knee, his hand tugging on the hem of Gimilkar's tunic. The Easterner's arrogance had vanished in the face of Gimilkar's powerful, immediate threat.

The Lord of the Corsairs sneered down at the Easterling, then snorted dismissively and sheathed his sword. "Stand," he said, raising the man to his feet.

"My Lord is merciful," Ulfor simpered.

"Indeed," Gimilkar agreed grandly. "But do not forget yourself again!"

"No, my Lord." Ulfor bowed deeply. Both men went to the side of the ship facing the city. Ulfor swung himself over the side and climbed down a ladder to the small boat that awaited him.  Gimilkar watched him descend, his cloak thrown back so that his hand rested menacingly on the hilt of his new sword.

No sooner had Ulfor disappeared from view than the grappling hook sailed over Haleth's head. Springing silently to her feet, she deftly caught the rope and swung it so that the metal prongs flew back from whence they had come.

Gimilkar stood with his back to Haleth, watching his unappreciated benefactor make his slow way back to shore. Haleth, in turn, tried to decide what to do next.

Her best course of action was to wait until Gimilkar went to his quarters and then to abscond with his new weapon while he slept.

The simple, elegant plan was immediately ruined when the door opened again. A man, bent almost double, slouched through it.

Without a word he approached Gimilkar, carrying himself with obsequious excitement.

"My Lord?" he enquired nervously.

"Give the signal, Zimramul," Gimilkar barked. "We leave for Pelagir as soon as the men are onboard. The rest of the fleet awaits us at sea."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"I will be the King of Gondor before the next cycle of the moon."

"Yes, my King." Zimramul bowed and scuttled to the back of the ship, Haleth slinking after him in the shadows. Gimilkar's announcement severely curtained the amount of time she had to retrieve the sword; even if she managed to successfully stow away on the Raptor and then take the blade without being caught, there was the little matter of getting back to dry land. Her plans had to be changed from a vague, optimistic outline to completely flying by the seat of her pants. Haleth stifled a weary sigh. It had to be Inglor’s fault. This sort of thing had never happened to her until he had shown his handsome face. Now it happened all of the time. She observed that he had once again conveniently disappeared at the exact moment she needed him, conveniently forgetting that she was responsible for his absence.

Zimramul climbed onto the rear deck of the ship where the tiller stood. The tall, thin man was bent over what appeared to be a very thick arrow, fumbling with something. Haleth edged closer behind him, peering over his shoulder as the man grumbled nervously under his breath.

"This is no time to behave this way. Mustn't keep his Lordship waiting. If this succeeds, I'll have a fief of my own but if I'm not quick, he'll gut me with that new toy of his."

He gave a satisfied grunt as a spark flared to life.

Haleth, throwing a silent apology in Zimramul's direction, brought the hilt of her knife down on his unsuspecting head. The man sighed and toppled over.  As he fell he extinguished the fire he had taken such pains to start.

That took care of part of Haleth's problem; the Corsairs would not be summoned until the signal was sent.  Now she need only wrest the sword away from Gimilkar while he was awake and very much aware of her presence.

Drawing her dark cloak more tightly around her, Haleth made her silent way back towards Castamir's heir. There was some small chance he would be so engrossed in imagining his coronation in Minas Tirith that he would not notice her taking the sword from his person. The outlandish idea almost seemed possible. Gimilkar was still standing where Zimramul had left him, staring at the lights of Umbar.

Haleth soundlessly descended the ladder and wondered if Inglor would arrive and help to subdue Gimilkar.

Neither possibility was to be. Gimilkar, roused from his dreams of grandeur, addressed Haleth as she approached him.

"Why did you not send the signal?" he demanded. "Do you still not know how to start a fire?"

Haleth cringed dramatically in imitation of Zimramul's behavior. If she could get just a few steps closer, she could reach the sword.

Apparently the show of fear was not convincing enough.

"Halt!" Gimilkar's voice was low but commanding. "Who are you?"

Haleth glanced quickly along the deck, hoping for some sign of Inglor. In typical fashion, the Elf was nowhere to be seen.

"It doesn't matter who I am," she said, throwing off the encumbering cloak. "I have come for the sword. Please give it to me and I'll be away without any unpleasantness."

Gimilkar studied her in silent incredulity.

Then he threw back his head and laughed.  It was a most unpleasant sound and stirred an ancient, evil memory in the back of Haleth’s mind.

"Now I can die saying that I have seen all things," he chuckled. "I am not about to give you anything, except maybe a bath in the harbour. How did you get on to my ship?"

"That doesn't matter, either," Haleth said, extending her left hand. "Please just give me the sword."

Gimilkar's' face twisted into a nasty smile.

"Try to take it," he laughed.

~*~

Without aid of a rope, a soaking wet Inglor made his way up the Raptor’s hull. Haleth had deliberately thrown the grappling hook over the side twice. He had no reason to believe a third attempt would yield any different results. It was a tortuous climb, even for the elf, as the Corsairs were able shipwrights. There were barely chinks and cracks for even his elvish fingers to use.

He silently wished that Haleth was a little less proud. His offers of help were never meant to diminish her, but she always took them as a personal insult. Inglor was desperately worried that one day her stubborn pride would be the death of her.

The faint sounds of a conversation drifted down to his sensitive ears.

"Try to take it," a man's voice said. His tone promised grievous bodily harm.

"Why all the fuss over a sword? It's just a piece of metal." Haleth asked in a mild tone that Inglor immediately recognised.

"Just a..." the man sputtered.

Inglor heard the unmistakable, metallic ring of a blade being drawn from its sheath.

"This," the man said proudly. "Is the Sword of Numenor, Aranruth, which was carried by Thingol, King of Doriath in the Elder Days. As his descendant and rightful heir, I claim the right to this blade!"

"I am sorry to inform you that both Doriath and Anadûnê have sunk beneath the waves. Perhaps you have an arrangement to bring them back?" Haleth asked calmly as Inglor tried to make better speed. "Even if you did there are those in line to rule before you."

"Your current knowledge of geography is lacking," the man sneered. "Gondor still exists and I am her rightful King! The Stewards who rule in Minas Tirith are not descended from Elendil."

"I know of Gondor," Haleth said tranquilly. "But I was not speaking of the Stewards. If you willingly give me the sword, I will see it gets to its proper place."

"Draw your weapon!" he shouted. "I'll never let it be said that I slew a youth who could not defend himself."

There was a pause, then the cold ring of a sword sliding from its sheath.

"What sword is that?" the man asked, curious in spite of himself.

"One I found someplace," Haleth said dismissively. "It's amazing what you can find if you know where to look."

"Then look upon your death," the man said, menacingly.

"I've seen it," Haleth shrugged. "It was far more impressive than you."

There was a wordless cry of anger, followed immediately by the clash of metal striking metal and the pounding of feet upon the wooden deck.

Inglor pulled himself to the top of the railing to see Haleth and a man who could only be Gimilkar, locked in a deadly dance. Unwilling to shout and cause a fatal distraction, he waited and watched with terrified admiration as Haleth attacked, parried, riposted and attacked once again. Inglor had to admit that it was an impressive display of swordplay and not something of which he had though her capable.

Gimilkar pressed his attack, believing he had an advantage. Haleth retreated from his furious onset, barely parrying the blows. Without warning she lunged forward, the point of her sword aimed directly at her opponent’s heart. At the last instant Gimilkar brought his sword down and hastily backed away. Haleth's blade grazed his forearm, drawing blood.

"First blood," she said, retreating while Gimilkar briefly examined the wound. "Why not save both of us the trouble and give me the blade now?"

"If you want the sword, you can have it!" Gimilkar cried, lunging wildly at her.

"Handing it to me would be preferable," Haleth murmured as she deflected his thrust and stood to one side so that he charged by her. She slapped his backside with the flat of her blade as he rushed past.

The indignity annoyed Gimilkar sufficiently to remind him of his technique.

He whirled around, seething with anger and wounded pride, to find Haleth grinning insouciantly at him.

"You will pay for your insolence," he said, his voice deadly quiet, saluting her with his sword.

Haleth raised her own blade in formal acknowledgement of the challenge.

The two foes circled each other slowly, swords at the ready, each attempting to read the other's intentions.

Gimilkar lunged without warning and Haleth, hard-pressed to defend herself, was driven backwards towards the oarsmen's benches. Metal chimed against metal in a deadly song.

A dark stain spread across Haleth's tunic where Gimilkar’s blade had found his mark. Her blood spilt onto the deck in thick pools.

Aranruth glowed with cold anger in the starlight as Gimilkar advanced upon her. Haleth’s blade shone with equal fury.  It was as if both swords recalled some other, ancient battle and were fighting it once again.

Inglor prepared to draw his own sword when Gimilkar, taking advantage of a gap in Haleth's guard, drove forward with the point of his sword. The Elf rushed forwards, certain that he was witnessing the last moment of Haleth's life while he was too far away to be of any help.

At the last possible moment, Haleth's sword sliced crosswise and upwards, forcing Aranruth wide and away from her. Before Gimilkar could recover, she chopped her blade downwards, slicing deeply across his upper arm.

The Corsair moaned in surprise and pain. Aranruth fell to the deck.

"What are you waiting for?" he growled, clutching his arm, blood pouring over his fingers. "Finish it."

Haleth laughed ruefully.  She gave him an ironic salute with her sword before kicking Aranruth's hilt so that the blade slid across the deck.

"Very well," she said, sheathing her own sword. Turning her back on Gimilkar, she hurried to retrieve the Sword of Numenor.

Shouts rang across the water. The disturbance aboard the Raptor had been noted and Gimilkar's men were coming to their Lord's aid.

In her rush, Haleth, who had been the picture of grace and agility up to this time, slipped in a puddle of her own blood. She slid forward, her arms cartwheeling wildly in the air, and landed on her backside with an ignominious thump. She remained there for a moment, winded and blinking, seemingly forgetting Gimilkar.

Inglor, still unnoticed, was directly beside Gimilkar when the Corsair drew a wicked, jagged knife and prepared to throw it at Haleth's unsuspecting back. With a carefully calculated amount of force, the Elf brought the hilt of his sword down on Gimilkar's head. The Corsair sighed and collapsed, just as Haleth picked up Aranruth.

The dull thump Gimilkar's body hitting the deck brought Haleth back to her immediate surroundings.

"Hello, Inglor," she said weakly. "What took you so long?"

"I had trouble getting onboard," he explained, stepping over Gimilkar to help her.

She offered Aranruth to him as he helped her to her feet. "I think you should take this," she said faintly. "It doesn't seem to care for me."

"Half a minute," Inglor murmurred calmly. With preternatural speed, he removed the scabbard from Gimilkar's belt, examined it quickly, then shuddered and dropped it.

"I'll just have to carry it like this," he told Haleth as he wrapped his free arm around her waist and helped her to the far side of the ship. The first of the smaller boats had almost reached the Raptor. The angry shouts of the Corsairs, calling Gimilkar's name rang in the night air.

"Did you think to secure our boat?" Haleth asked her companion.

"No," Inglor replied, the slightest hint of annoyance in his fair voice. "I did not have a rope."

"But I kept trying to give you one," she said as she peered into the inky blackness. "It's drifted away."

"It is just over there," Inglor said, pointing towards the ocean. "We can reach it."

They both leapt over the railing.

Inglor sat on the floor of a ship's cagin, his legs stretched before him, and sang a quiet lament to entertain himself. Aranruth, wrapped in a cloth, was stowed beneath the captain's bed.  The sword Haleth had been carrying rested on the floor beside him.  They both would be sent into the Uttermost West.

Haleth had secured passage on a low, sleek, trading vessel.  The captain, a dark-skinned, widely grinning merchant from Far Harad, had a set of sparkling gold teeth.  Had had rented his cramped but well appointed cabin to them for the voyage North.

"Don't you know any happy songs?" Haleth asked sleepily from the berth.

"You are awake. Are you in pain?" Inglor answered her question with another question.

"Somewhat, yes," Haleth said, wincing slightly as she pulled herself as far upright as the low ceiling would allow.

"You should rest. You will heal more quickly that way," said Inglor with gentle reproval.

"Don't worry, Inglor," she said. "It's not as if there's much else to do here. Except..." She looked at her companion for a fraction of a second too long.  He was stunningly beautiful and it was all too easy to picture the potential activities their current situation could lead to. The blood immediately rose in her cheeks.

 "...talk," she finished lamely.

The captain had politely requested that they stay belowdecks as much as possible. Inglor assumed it was to keep them out of sight in case they came across the Corsairs or the naval patrols of Gondor. The situation suited him quite well as it meant that Haleth had no choice but to rest and allow herself to heal.

"That and tend your wounds," Inglor said lightly as he seated himself on the edge of the narrow bed.

"They're' fine," Haleth said automatically.

"Of course they are," he said soothingly. "I just want to look at them."

Haleth pulled away and immediately bumped her head on the corner of the low ceiling.

"And now you have a new one," he said, his voice bubbling with laughter as Haleth gingerly rubbed the top of her bruised head.

"You're dangerous," Haleth grumbled as Inglor gently probed her wounded collarbone with his fingertips. He was gentle, but the injury was raw and tender. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to not flinch.

"Yes," he agreed calmly as he finished his examination. "So are you."

"I did inflict more damage than usual this time," Haleth said. "And had more damage inflicted upon me."

She frowned at her bandages. "I was careless," she said darkly.

"The other sword, do you know whose it was?" Inglor asked to distract her.

"No," Haleth admitted. "Though I think it belonged to one Fëanor's followers."

Inglor paused, his eyes became clouded with sorrow. "It did," he said softly.

Haleth watched him in silence. Knowing that he was in need of comfort, but not quite understanding why, she placed her hand upon his arm. He grasped her hand so tightly that she gasped in pain and he quickly relaxed his grip.

"Which one?" she asked.

"Which one what?" he replied.

"To which one of Fëanor's followers did the sword belong?"

Inglor leant forward until his forehead rested against Haleth's and their faces were inchs apart.

"I think it is best not to say. It hardly matter as you cannot keep it."

"If you think it best," Haleth whispered, too taken aback by his physical proximity to argue.

They remained that way, their heads bent together, sitting upon the trader captain's narrow berth. The only motion was the gentle rocking of the boat upon the arms of the sea.

Then Inglor reached behind Haleth and fluffed the pillow.

"You should rest," he said softly as he drew away from her.

"That's all I've been doing the entire trip," she grumbled as she lay back. "I'm bored."

"I could tell you a story," Inglor volunteered.

"I'd prefer a song," Haleth said. "Something happy."

Inglor laughed. It sounded like the clear ringing of silver bells. Then he began a merry tune while Haleth tapped her fingers in accompaniment.