This is a work of fanfiction.  There is no intent to make any money from it. 

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and the writers at the Garden of Ithilien for helping me to beat this into shape. 

Haleth adjusted her pack. The right strap had worked itself loose and dug into her shoulder blade. She meant to fix it; but whenever they stopped, there had always been something more pressing that demanded her attention. This would not have been a difficulty if Inglor had been in less of a rush.

She glanced surreptitiously at her companion. The Elf strode beside her, as beautiful and tireless as ever, the light that shone from his hair and skin fading with the approaching dawn. She couldn’t help but wonder why a High Elf of the royal household had chosen to traipse around Middle-earth with a mortal woman. It was a question that had bothered her for years, and one she refused to ask for fear that he would demand similar information from her.

Her foot glanced off a stone, the impact barely cushioned by the worn leather of her boots. Hissing in pain, she shifted her attention to where she was going. The road wound like a silver ribbon through the forest of the western coast; a wide, clear border on either side. Haleth wondered who kept it clear now that Círdan and the folk of Lindon had sailed to the Blessed Realm.

‘The sun will rise soon,’ said Haleth as she glanced over her shoulder at the fading stars in the eastern sky and adjusted her pack again.

‘It will,’ Inglor agreed in the same, calm, even tone of voice he used from everything from commenting upon the weather to announcing the arrival of a troop of orcs.

‘Shall we stop for a while?’ she asked. They had walked from Rhûn to the eastern borders of Lindon, barely pausing for more than a day to replenish their supplies. There had been several occasions when Haleth had thought to stop or turn aside. In spite of her intentions, she had never been able to part company with Inglor.

‘There is not much further to go,’ said Inglor, smiling a faint smile that was probably meant to be encouraging.

‘True, but the feet of mortals are not as tireless as those of the Elves,” said Haleth.

Inglor stopped so abruptly that Haleth nearly stumbled into him. He studied her with an air of deep concentration.

‘Are you tired?’ he finally asked. He sounded as though he could not quite bring himself to believe it.

Haleth was torn. Her pride insisted she deny the accusation and march onwards to the Grey Havens, but her body demanded rest. For once, she let her body take precedence. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I am,’ she said with wounded dignity.

Inglor continued his examination until she grew uncomfortable and began to fidget.

‘You have never complained of this before,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said sullenly.

‘Why are you tired?’ he asked.

‘Inglor!’ she burst out indignantly, ‘I’m mortal. I’m getting old.’

‘Old?’ he echoed as though he had never heard the concept of the word before, much less the word itself.

‘Yes, old,’ she snapped. ‘Old and…what do you Elves say?…weary.’

He stared at her with complete incomprehension.

Haleth threw her hands in the air in frustration.

‘Inglor, don’t tell me you don’t understand what happens to mortals. I know you have seen it. We age. Our skin wrinkles, our hair turns grey…’ She pretended not to notice when his gaze flicked to the corners of her temples. In the rare, brief glimpses she had gotten of herself in mirrors, Haleth had noticed the strands of iron grey in her hair. She tried to ignore it, but just knowing it was there bothered her. Inglor’s silent reminder of her advancing years pierced her already wounded pride and she continued in a harsh voice. ‘…Our backs bend and we die.’

‘Your back is not bent,’ he said.

Haleth’s jaw worked soundlessly. ‘I suppose this means I have wrinkles, too,’ she thought bitterly. There was no point in asking. Inglor’s answer was bound to be honest which was certain to further irritate her.

‘We also tire more quickly when we age,’ she said.

To her unending shock, Inglor resumed walking. If anything, his pace was faster than it had been before they had stopped.

‘Inglor! What are you doing? I said I was tired,’ she called. ‘Fine!’ she shouted to his retreating back. ‘You just carry on. I’m going to stop here and rest.’

Without waiting to see his reaction, she stamped to the side of the road and threw herself onto the soft earth. He could march all the way to the Grey Havens for all she cared. In fact, this would be the perfect time to make good on the promise she had made to herself half a year ago. Once she had rested, instead of following Inglor, she would turn around and walk back to the Shire…well, maybe not the Shire. The Hobbits did not seem overly fond of strangers. But she could go to Bree; there were humans there. Except she was known in Bree, and her reputation was not the best. While that could be overcome in a larger city, it would be far more difficult to change the minds of the Breefolk. Rivendell was unwelcoming. Perhaps she would walk right back to Lake Town; Berengil would give her a place to stay.

Her angry thoughts were interrupted by Inglor’s return. He loomed over her, the soft gleam that accompanied him at night fading in the light of dawn.

‘Are you well?’ he asked calmly.

‘Yes,’ she sighed in exasperation. ‘Inglor, I’m just tired. We’ve been walking all night. I must rest.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall gather wood for a fire.’

‘That shouldn’t be necessary,’ she said, standing to wrap her cloak around her. ‘I only need a few hours of sleep. I know you’re in a hurry.’

‘Are you not cold?’ he asked solicitously.

‘No,’ she lied as she stretched out on the ground. There was dew on the grass and it immediately soaked through her tattered cloak. ‘Why do you ask?’ she wondered.

He inhaled audibly and seemed to be weighing his words with care while Haleth silently fumed. ‘If he says he’s worried about my health because I am getting old, I’ll hurt him,’ she thought.

‘I should like a hot breakfast. I shall cook it while you sleep,’ he finally said.

‘Very well,’ Haleth grunted. She strongly suspected there was more behind his reasoning, but there was little use in arguing the point, especially with sleep beckoning.

Sleep, however, refused to come. The light brightened, but the air was still cool and the dew made her cold and uncomfortable. She could have chosen a better place for a nap. She felt very exposed lying at the side of the road. She was just contemplating moving to a more sheltered area beneath the trees when Inglor returned.

He lit a small cooking fire while she pretended to sleep and listened to his soft singing. Much to her consternation, the flames were too far away to give her any warmth. She could roll closer to it while feigning sleep. With luck she would not roll too far and set herself on fire.

While she was considering the best course of action, someone grasped her by the shoulders. Before she could react, she was rolled on her side and her wet cloak was stripped away to be replaced by a soft, warm blanket.

With the fire warming her face and Inglor’s music in her ears, Haleth slipped into true sleep.

They reached the green hills of Emyn Beriad later that day. Elostirion shone in the afternoon sun.

Inglor paused and gazed back along the road, his slender hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Haleth, who was certain he affected the behavior for her benefit, examined his face, hoping for some hint of his mood.

‘Among my people, it is said this road is the very same route we took when the Valar summoned us from Cuivienen to Aman,’ he said.

Haleth stared into the east. The road ran down the slope and through green, gently rolling hills. If she squinted, she could trace its silvery path through the Hobbit’s fields where it vanished into the blue haze of the horizon.

She struggled to find a profound response while the western wind pushed against her back. It picked up her hair and playfully tossed is around her face. She doggedly refused to acknowledge the streaks of silver that glimmered amid the sandy brown.

‘That was very long ago,’ she finally said, giving up on profundity.

‘Indeed,’ said Inglor, ‘It is old even by my reckoning and the reckoning of my father.’

Haleth inhaled sharply. She had always wondered about Inglor’s family. Other than Finarfin, he never mentioned any of them by name. She respected his silence on the matter, partly out of politeness, partly because he would undoubtedly expect similar revelations from her and Haleth flatly refused to think of her family, much less speak of them. The nearby surroundings were more than enough of a reminder.

‘These towers are not so ancient,’ she said to change the subject.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Although they do appear to have been built by my people.’

‘Gil-galad had them built,’ she said.

Inglor turned towards the north, away from the towers.

‘It seems an odd place to have built them,’ he said slowly. ‘His realm was in Lindon, was it not?’

‘It…was,’ said Haleth, surprised in the apparent gap in Inglor’s historical knowledge. ‘He had them built for his allies in the Last Alliance.’

‘For Elendil,’ said Inglor.

‘Yes,’ said Haleth, shifting uncomfortably and the mention of the name. ‘There was supposedly a palantir in the tallest tower.’

Her jaw dropped open as realization hit. Inglor was far more devious than she would have ever credited him.

‘You mean to take that palantir and send it to Gondor in place of the one we lost,’ she said in shocked admiration.

Inglor finally turned to face her, a faint, bemused smile upon his face.

‘I could never do that,’ he said solemnly.

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ thought Haleth bitterly. ‘Only mortals are so underhanded.  Or at least I am.’

‘Each palantir is different. The King of Gondor has undoubtedly seen the palantir of Elostirion. Any attempt to substitute it for the other would be noticed immediately,’ he continued.

Haleth stared at him, uncertain of how to respond. He seemed to be telling the bare, honest truth, but was there a nuance in the way he had spoken? The slightest twisting at the corners of his lips to show he was not as honest as she believed?

She was still considering when he turned his attention to the tallest tower.

‘A palantir can be a dangerous thing. If word of it got out, it could attract the attention of the unethical. I do not like to think of the Hobbits being troubled by the Hosluin,’ he said.

‘Hobbits are too level headed to have anything to do with the Hosluin,’ said Haleth.

‘If words do not suffice, the Hosluin will use swords. I will not have it.’

He strode to the door of the tower. Elostirion had been built during a time of war. Although the trouble had not reached so far north in many years, it was designed as a stronghold. A slender bridge of white stone arched over a deep ditch that surrounded the base of the tower. The ditch was deceptively green with grass and moss, but here and there sharp edges of rocks jutted out of the turf. Anyone unlucky enough to fall into the trench would have a very uncomfortable landing.

Haleth unwillingly followed Inglor across the bridge, dragging her feet and frowning the entire time.

She reached the opposite end to find him intently examining the doors. Elostirion boasted a pair of white doors emblazoned with the symbol of the white tree surmounted by seven stars. There was no handle or any obvious way to open them.

‘I imagine they were made to open from the inside,’ said Inglor. He pushed on them to no effect.

‘I imagine.’ Haleth shrugged. Deliberately turning her back on the tower, she sat on the bridge’s parapet so her feet dangled over the moat and stared into the east. The gentle hills were covered in the bright, green grass of spring while the distant fields of the Shire were a patchwork of greens and browns. In several months those fields would be golden with ripe wheat that could be made into bread.

Haleth sighed. She missed eating bread on a regular basis for it wasn’t readily available in the wild. It would be wonderful to settle in a place where she could have the luxury of eating bread every day.

‘Do you know of anything that could open these doors?’ asked Inglor, interrupting her musings.

‘A very large battering ram?’ Haleth suggested. It was obvious Inglor intended to enter the Tower in search of the palantir. It was equally obvious they would be there for some time. She wished there was a more comfortable place to sit than the hard stone of the bridge.

‘I was hoping for something smaller,’ he said.

Tapping her fingers thoughtfully against her lips, Haleth studied the heavily built doors.

‘I don’t think a small battering ram would work,’ she eventually said.

‘I was referring to a small, metallic tool you might keep in your pockets,’ he said.

‘You mean a lock pick,’ she said.

‘Is that what it is called?’ he asked.

‘That is the vulgar term, yes,’ she replied, crossing her arms.

‘I would not call it vulgar,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The term is descriptive, but not indelicate.’

‘But only indelicate people would carry one,’ said Haleth with brittle smile.

‘I never said…’ he began.

‘You didn’t have to; it’s implied,’ Haleth snapped.

‘If that is true, it is you who makes the implication,’ he said sadly.

Haleth glared at him and bit off an angry retort. It was true. Inglor never cast any aspersions upon her character. He hardly had to; her lack of integrity was plain for anyone to see. She was getting rather tired of his skirting around the subject as though it did not matter.

‘A lock pick is only useful in the hands of an accomplished thief,’ she said tartly, ignoring his sudden intake of breath. For an instant Haleth had the oddest impression that he had been going to ask to borrow it. She continued on before he could speak, ‘And even then only when there is a lock to pick; something this door is sadly lacking.’

‘You are correct,’ he said, defeated.

Haleth grunted and began to make her way across the bridge, happy to leave Elostirion behind. Inglor fell into step beside her. ‘We shall have to see if there is a window.’

She stared straight ahead and stifled a nasty comment.

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and the writers at the Garden of Ithilien for helping me to beat this into shape. Particular thanks to Gwynnyd for her expertise in rock-climbing.

Soon they were strolling about the perimeter of the dry moat. Inglor studied the tower while Haleth watched anything but. The Gulf of Lhûn glimmered in the distance. Beyond the water, the Blue Mountains marched to the north, vanishing into the haze at the horizon.  Soon they would reach the western edge of Middle-earth.  What would they do then?  Turn around and walk back to Esgaroth?

Haleth sighed.  Although she would enjoy seeing Berengil again, the thought of walking all that distance held no appeal.  The years were catching up to her.  Soon she would have to find a place to settle.  Could she convince Inglor to stay with her? He would if she asked, but did she really want him to watch her grow old while he remained ever youthful?   Would he be repulsed by her deepening wrinkles and stooped back?   Or would he stay out of pity in spite of his revulsion.  She would rather they part company than have him pity her; even if it meant dying alone. 

‘There is one,’ he said when they were half way around.

Haleth glanced up. There was an opening three quarters of the way up the tower. It was wider than an arrow slit, but from this distance still seemed quite narrow.

‘It looks rather small,’ she said, frowning at the high, narrow opening.

Ignoring her doubts, Inglor dug through his pack. He pulled out a grappling hook and a length of rope and quickly secured them together. The grappling hook whirled around his head, sailed through the air and landed inside of the window with his first throw.

‘Could you please hold the end of the rope?’ he requested.

‘I could...’ Haleth began as she frowned at the slender opening.

‘Thank-you,’ he said. Before she could express further doubts, he threw off his cloak, grasped the rope and swung across the moat. Haleth was forced to dive after the end to keep the cord from falling into the moat. She barely caught it, landing on her stomach with her arms and shoulders over the edge.

She lay there for a moment, staring at the sharp rocks on the side of the ditch, winded and silently cursing the quickness of Elves.

By the time she sat up, Inglor had already covered half the distance to the window. He walked up the tower wall as if it were a flat, paved road. It was beyond galling for Haleth; climbing was far more difficult now than it had been five years earlier. She bit her lips and suppressed the urge to shout at him. It would serve no purpose; he would never understand.

There was one advantage to her current situation; she could watch Inglor without having to guard her expression. It was impressive to watch him for he was quick and graceful, the muscles of his arms and legs rippling beneath his clothing.

Her thoughts drifted to subjects that were better avoided.

Shaking her head, Haleth flushed and searched for a rock on which to tie the rope. When she looked up again, Inglor had reached the window. His golden head was inside the tower, but the rest of him from the shoulders down was outside, struggling and squirming to worm his way in. It made for a very interesting view. She felt a ridiculous urge to climb the rope and pinch his unprotected backside.

To distract herself, she shifted her gaze westward. Dark clouds piled high on the horizon, heavy with the promise of rain. Getting inside the tower suddenly became a great deal more appealing.

‘I think it’s going to rain,’ she called conversationally. Most of Inglor was still hanging outside the window. The visible portion of him was writhing about in a rather alarming fashion. His frantic gyrations amused Haleth for half a moment until she suspected something more sinister.

‘You’re stuck, aren’t you?’ she called.

Inglor chopped his hand downwards. She did not hear any other reply.

‘Stupid, stubborn, Firstborn fool!’ she muttered under her breath. He should have let her try the window. She was smaller and had enough sense to not get stuck.

How could she help him? There were no other windows on that side of the tower. She would have to climb into and out of the moat, scale the wall and hope there was a way inside from the roof. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain upon it.

‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ she called as she examined the tower. The walls appeared to be smooth and woefully lacking in handholds. The rain would make the situation worse. ‘Although it might take me a while,’ she muttered under her breath.

The best way to climb the tower would be to scale the rope first. That would bring her over half way to the top. The worst struggle would be keeping her hands to herself.

Inglor’s head popped out of the window.

’Secure the rope!’ he called.

’What?’ asked Haleth.

’I am coming down. Secure the rope.’

Haleth barely had enough time to loop the cord around her waist and place one foot on the slack. In the blink of an eye Inglor slid down, almost dragging the Haleth off balance.

‘The window was too narrow,’ he said as his feet lightly touched the ground beside her.

‘I’d surmised as much. Shall we search for shelter?’ she asked, frowning at the heavy, grey clouds that scudded towards them like an approaching army.

‘We have already found it,’ he said, bewildered.

‘Yes, but I believe for it to qualify as shelter we actually have to be able to enter it,’ said Haleth, crossing her arms.

They watched the approaching storm. Rain poured down from the sky.

‘There are the other two towers.’ Haleth finally acknowledged.

‘The palantir would be in the highest,’ Inglor insisted.

‘Right. Fine,’ sighed Haleth. She shrugged the pack off her shoulders and let if fall to the ground. A bit of fumbling in the many pockets of her shirt produced a pair of thick leather gloves. Without looking at Inglor, she passed the rope between her legs and launched herself across the moat.

Haleth was surprised by the amount of time it took to swing across the gap for she seemed to be moving very slowly. She had expected to take a few bruises when she connected with the tower, but her outstretched feet landed as gently as a feather. For an instant she wondered if she had somehow acquired Inglor’s reflexes. When she looked over her shoulder he was standing at the edge of the moat, the rope in his hands. He must have paid it out slowly to keep her from slamming into the building.

It was a considerate thing to have done but it irritated Haleth. ‘He thinks I’m getting old and fragile.’ A strand of grey hair blew in front of her eyes. ‘Maybe I am,’ she thought sadly. There was nothing to remedy that particular condition and little point in complaining about it.

Wrapping the rope around her calf, Haleth and began to climb, pushing herself up the rope with her feet. It took her far longer than it had taken Inglor. Her legs were burning when she finally reached the window. She transferred her grasp to the window ledge and stared into the cool darkness.

The window was as narrow as it had seemed from the ground. After a moment’s rest, Haleth experimentally pulled herself into the opening. She managed to get her head most of the way inside the thick wall, but her shoulders would not fit through the narrow gap. She shrugged and twisted sideways. Her right shoulder met the unyielding edge of the upper window opening.

If she was careful, she might be able to wriggle inside but there were a few preparations she would need to make first.

She inched down the rope. The darned Elf! She had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing to do with the tower and he had deliberately ignored her. But Elves were stubborn creatures. Being immortal, he had a distinct advantage over her; he could wait until he got his way. Besides, it was not as though she had anything more important to do. This train of thought darkened her mood as the clouds covered the sun.

Inglor pulled the rope back across the moat so that she did not have to climb down the ditch and scramble back up. If he hadn’t been driving her to find a way into the tower, she might have thanked him.

‘How badly do you want to get in there?’ she asked as soon as her feet touched the ground.

Inglor blinked. It was as close to a response as she was likely to get.

‘Fine.’

She fished through her many hidden pockets and produced a leather case. ‘No,’ she said, returning her spare lock picks to their secret place. These were followed in quick succession by a bar of soap, a lump of wax and a thing that looked suspiciously like a tinderbox. ‘Is that where that went,’ Haleth muttered as it disappeared into the depths of her shirt once again.

She pulled out a vial and uncorked it. The aroma of rancid animal fat wafted through the air. ‘Ah. There is it. Here. Hold this.’ She thrust the smelly concoction at Inglor who took it with great reluctance and held it at arm’s length.

‘What is this?’ he asked, breathing delicately through his mouth as his nose wrinkled in disgust.

‘Bear grease,’ she replied. Turning away from him, she pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it on the ground.

‘Rub some of that on my shoulders and back, would you?’ she asked.

There was a long pause then the vial flew over her head. It sailed in a graceful arc before plummeting into the dry moat, leaving a faint whiff of rancid bear behind.

‘Inglor! Why did you do that?’ An outraged Haleth rounded on the elf who was calmly digging through his pack as though nothing outrageous had occurred.

‘Forgive me, Haleth, I could not endure the stench,’ he said calmly.

‘That stench was going to get us inside the tower,’ she snarled.

‘Although I could understand their revulsion, I somehow doubt the stones would move away from the smell,’ he said as he laid items neatly onto the ground.

‘It wasn’t the smell that would get us in. The grease would allow me to slide through the window,’ she huffed.

‘I know, but this will have the same effect and the aroma will not choke an orc.’ He held up a crystal vial carved in the shape of a flower.

‘What’s that?’ Haleth asked, her eyes narrowed.  She was wary of anything from Inglor’s pack. Through hard experience she had learned that concoctions made for elves did not always have the expected effect on mortals.

‘It is a fragrant oil made from the flowers of Lorien,’ he said, pulling the cork from the vial. The sweet aroma of exotic blossoms filled the air. The scent washed away Haleth’s weariness and lifted her spirits.

‘What is it used for?’ she asked, somewhat mollified.

‘Various things,’ he shrugged. ‘In this case, squeezing into a tight space.’

Haleth stared into his blue eyes. It was difficult to judge Inglor’s facial expressions for they were always muted, but he seemed to be smirking. The expression unsettled her for she had never seen it on his face before. She suddenly remembered that she had removed her shirt. Only the band of material wrapped around her chest preserved her modesty. She crossed her arms and spun away from him.

‘Fine. Go ahead,’ she said, trying to ignore the heat rising in her face.

Warm, strong hands massaged the fragrant oil into her shoulders. Haleth’s knees grew weak. She fought the ridiculous urge to fall backwards and allow Inglor to catch her. The air, heavy with the oncoming rain and the scent of sweet oil, promised vivid dreams.

‘That’s enough,’ she said gruffly. ‘I don’t need to be dripping with it.’

‘Half a moment, you should have some on your back.’ His voice was directly above her. Haleth bit her lip and stared at her feet to avoid looking up and meeting his eyes. The toes of her boots were stained black and green from her earlier slide through the turf.

‘You are tense,’ he said as he ran his fingers along her flesh.

‘Of course I’m tense! What are you doing to me?’ Haleth screamed in her mind.

‘I want to get into the tower before the rain starts,’ she lied.

His hands left her body, leaving Haleth with pangs of regret mixed equally with relief.

‘Off we go,’ she said, grasping the rope.

‘Wait, Haleth,’ he said. ‘I must dry my hands before I can hold the rope safely.’

‘If you don’t want me to injure myself, why are you insisting I go at all?’ she thought. ‘Dry them fast!’ she growled.

‘There. You can go now.’ He took the end of the rope and held it loosely. Haleth passed the rope between her legs and once more launched herself across the moat. Inglor paid out the rope behind her. The second trip up the rope took even longer than the first.

Once again she climbed to the window opening. This time she slowly wormed her way through. The oil, whatever it was, seemed to have the additional virtue of protecting her skin against the worst abrasions from the stone. She paused when she had her shoulders most of the way through, confident she could get the rest of the way without getting stuck, and examined her surroundings.

The interior of the tower was almost pitch black. The window was the only source of illumination and her body blocked most of the light. She called out. The echoes bounced about the stone and carried up and down the walls.

How far down was the floor? She peered into the darkness but could not see it. If she had her shirt, she could try to light the stub of the candle she kept for such emergencies but the candle and the tinderbox were on the grass far below. She lacked even for something to drop to judge the distance to the bottom.

Out of desperation, she leaned in as far as she dared. With her toes hooked on the outer window ledge, she reached downwards into the darkness. Her hands encountered nothing but the smoothness of the inner wall.

Sighing in frustration, she worked her way upright. On an inspiration, she took the grappling hook and wormed her way out of the window.

Inglor stood at the bottom of the rope, looking up. The clouds completely covered the sky and the wind had picked up, making Haleth shiver.

‘Why didn’t you tell me there wasn’t a floor?’ she shouted.

‘There is a floor,’ he replied. Even from this distance she could see the confusion on his face.

‘Yes, but it’s rather a long way down, don’t you think?’ she said tartly.

Inglor’s eyebrows flew above his hairline.

‘I suppose but could you not see that?’ he called.

‘No! I’m old and my eyes are growing weak,’ she snapped as she attached the grappling hook to the outside of the window.

‘Let go of the rope,’ she added. With her arms confined by the window, it took a long time to haul the rope into the tower.

‘Could you please put my shirt into my pack so it won’t get wet?’ she asked. ‘And don’t go through my pockets!’

She pulled her head back inside before she could see his sad expression. Of course Inglor would never go through her pockets. His perfect manners would never allow such base behavior.

When she was satisfied the grappling hook was properly secured and the rope was paid out properly behind her, she lowered herself into the unknown.

With her body no longer blocking the window the darkness was not so complete. There were stairs two body lengths below her. She could have made the drop without the rope, but as she had gone to so much trouble, she might as well use it. It would reduce her chances of tumbling down the stairs which spiraled both upwards and downwards out of sight.

She set her feet against the stone and rested her hand on the coolness of the wall. Complete silence settled upon the staircase as the thick walls muffled the sounds from the outer world. The air within the tower was cool. The place smelled of dust and memory mixed with the sweet scent of the oil that coated her skin.

She should make her way to the bottom and find a way to let Inglor in before the rain started. Then again, it was his fault she was here at all. It would serve him right to get soaked. After removing her gloves to better feel her way, she began to climb the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing in the unnatural silence.

Haleth had been in many dangerous places but the deserted tower was somehow worse. She had the uneasy feeling she was not alone and caught herself more than once looking over her shoulder. It would hardly have surprised her to see a face peering out of the darkness. In some way, that would have been better than finding nothing but blackness and stones; at least it would have been something corporeal.

The light faded as she mounted the stairs, leaving the window behind her. Her footsteps echoed through the dark, doubling and redoubling until it seemed that an entire troop of invisible folk were mounting the stairs with her.

‘This tower was built by Gil-galad,’ she told herself sternly. ‘The Firstborn make no noise when they walk.’

But Gil-galad had not built the tower for his own use. The leader of fallen Westernesse, Elendil himself, had once lived within these stones. Legend told he had watched for the approach of Gil-galad’s host from the top of Elostirion.
She wondered if the stones had watched him the way they seemed to watch her.

Haleth’s hair stood on end at the prospect of Elendil’s ghost climbing the stairs with her. She should have gone to the bottom of the tower, opened the doors and let Inglor in before searching for the palantir. Even now she could turn around and flee downwards, the echoes and half heard whispers in her wake, and open the doors for him. But that would be admitting defeat, and her pride could not allow it. She would endure the whisper of stones and the memory of those long dead.

Up the stairs she trudged, surrounded by darkness and haunted by the half memory of a tall, bearded man whose pale form she could almost glimpse from the corner of her eye. And what of those who came behind them? Isildur and Anarion, Elendur, Aratan, Ciryon, Valandil and all of the captains and kings who had followed in their footsteps, all of whom were long dead. How many of them had mounted these stairs as she did now? Had the stones watched them in the same way? Would they one day remember her as they recalled the others? When would her shade come to join them, one more invisible memory stalking through the darkness?

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Haleth said aloud. Her words bounced off the walls, the echoes multiplying in the blackness. The scent of flowers had grown stronger as she climbed and was now almost overwhelming.

From whence had Inglor said his oil had come? Lorien. She had never entered the Golden Wood. Men told many strange tales of the Witch who lived there. Perhaps she had made the balm and infused it with her magic. Whoever had made it and for whatever purpose, it did not have a good effect upon mortals.

Her outstretched hand encountered a barrier. At first she thought the staircase had made an unexpected jog but as she moved her fingers over the obstacle, she realized it was made of wood rather than stone. It was a door. Groping for the latch, she full expected it would be locked. Part of her cursed her own stupidity for forgetting her lock picks while the other, larger part rejoiced, for now she would have no choice but to bring Inglor into the tower with her. The two conflicting thoughts were settling down for an argument when the door unexpectedly opened.

The sudden brightness dazzled her for a ring of windows filled the circumference of the tower. Rubbing her eyes in the manner of a child, she stumbled into the light.

The sky was covered in thick, dark clouds. Fat raindrops pelted the windows facing the ocean. Haleth stared at it in fascination. She had never understood how the Elves could build windows that would allow the breezes to pass but block precipitation. She could ask Inglor, but his explanation was bound to be long and highly technical and she doubted she would understand more than a few words of it.

Inglor. Was he still standing at the base of the tower in the driving rain? Surely he had had the sense to seek shelter, although there was precious little of it on the hilltop.

Hurrying to the windows she searched for him but he was nowhere in sight. She was assailed by the irrational fear that he had abandoned her entirely. The large room suddenly seemed to contract as though the stones, lonely for mortal company, would keep her here with them. Despite the downpour the outside world looked very appealing and she struggled against the urge to push her head or at least her hand through one of the windows. She could use the rainwater to wash the flowery oil from her skin.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she told herself out loud. Her voice was barely a whisper amid the thunder of the rain. A gust of wind blew through the window, chilling her exposed skin.

With her arms folded across her chest, she began to search the room.

There was an empty pedestal in front of the window that faced the sea. Closer inspection revealed a bowl shaped depression at its centre. It looked as thought it had been built to safely hold a palantir. Haleth ran her finger around its edge. The missing Seeing Stone was larger than the one she and Inglor had chased and ultimately lost. She wondered what secrets she might have seen within its depths. It was bound to have been more interesting than piles of gold.

There was little use in speculating about it. Perhaps Inglor could enlighten her later. She wished he were here with her now. His distracting company would have made the strange atmosphere of Elostirion easier to bear and she could have loudly blamed him for covering her in hallucinogenic oil.

She made a thorough examination, tapping on the walls beneath the windows and stamping on sections of the floor. It took very little time, for the place was empty of furniture except for the pedestal and a backless bench which she turned upside down and checked for hidden compartments. The vaulted ceiling was out of reach. She looked up at it speculatively and decided it was not likely there were any hidden doors up there, either. Even if there were she could not reach them. If Inglor insisted, he could come up here and search for himself.

Once satisfied that she had scoured the place to the best of her abilities, she reluctantly went back to the darkened staircase. The whispers and sensation of being watched returned as she descended the stairs, keeping one hand on the wall for guidance. She quickened her pace but the apparitions matched her speed. By the time she reached the bottom, she was running, heedless of where she was headed or the danger of falling.

She stumbled badly when she reached the bottom of the staircase. Only her hand on the wall saved her from landing on her knees. Clutching at the smooth stone, she paused to regain her bearings. The harsh noise of her breath echoed through the darkness. How was she going to get out of here? She should have climbed the rope and gone out through the window, but that would mean climbing the stairs again and Haleth was desperate to exit the tower. Besides, Inglor would probably appreciate the shelter the tower would provide; Haleth would certainly appreciate his company.

She became aware of a faint light as her breathing returned to normal. It was emanating from somewhere in front of her.

With her hand trailing along the wall and stepping carefully to avoid any unexpected obstacles, Haleth made her way in the direction of the light. It brought her to what could only be the front entrance. She expected the doors to be locked and once again cursed her stupidity for not bringing her lock picks.

To her immense surprise, the door swung open at her touch, carrying her out of the tower. The whispering darkness and cloying scent of flowers was washed away in a downpour of cold rain.

‘Inglor!’ she cried as she pitched forward onto the ground. The door hit her as it swung back on its hinges. She reflexively slid out of its way then dived after it, hampered by the fact that she was on her knees. Her fingers scrambled ineffectually at the door as it closed, locking her out.

‘No!’ she shouted, pounding on the unyielding wood with her fist.

‘Haleth, what are you doing?’

She spun around to find Inglor gazing down at her with the familiar look of calm bewilderment. He was soaked, his hair plastered to the sides of his face.

‘The door closed!’ she said.

Inglor glanced at the offending portal.

‘Yes, it did,’ he said, bending down beside her. ‘But I do not think you will open it by pummeling your fists against it.’ He took her hands in his and examined her bruised knuckles.

‘You’re…right,’ said Haleth, pulling her hands away from his. She was soaked to the skin which wasn’t saying much as she was wearing little other than her skin.

‘You d-d-don’t happen to have my shirt, do you?’ she asked, disgusted by the stutter in her voice.

‘It is in your pack. I left it under the trees. Half a moment.’

With one graceful movement he unclasped his cloak and threw it over her shoulders.

Haleth huddled inside it, grateful for its warmth.

‘The palantir is gone,’ she said

‘I had guessed as much,’ he said calmly. ‘Shall we retrieve our things?’

Haleth stared at his back. He knew. He had known from the start. Why had he insisted she subject herself to the silent memories of Elostirion to search for a palantir when he had known it would not be there?

‘Yes,’ she replied. She did not trust herself to say anything else.

The sun was high in the sky when Inglor and Haleth entered the Grey Havens. Haleth was profoundly grateful that they arrived during the daylight hours.

In the time that she had known it, Mithlond had hardly been a hive of activity. Haleth had seldom met anyone in the streets when she had come to see Círdan, and the few elves she had met rarely showed more than a passing interest in her.

There was, as she was beginning to realize, a very large difference between a thinly populated settlement and one which was completely deserted.

The worn soles of her boots were unnaturally loud on the cobblestones. Shuttered windows glared at her in silent condemnation, disapproving of her disturbing their slumber.

Inglor made no sound as he walked. He looked sadly upon the deserted streets and buildings of Mithlond. Haleth edged closer and closer to him until they were so close that, if he had not been gifted with good co-ordination, he would have tripped over her when they rounded a corner.

He easily avoided her and hardly seemed to notice the intricate little dance she performed to not crash into him.

Admonishing herself to watch where he was going, Haleth forced herself to put more distance between them.

The wind sighed forlornly through the empty streets. As she gazed at the blank windows, she was reminded of the empty ruins that littered Eriador. Not that Mithlond was anything like them. The buildings were completely intact and the gardens were still beautiful in a wild, over-run sort of way. The delicate scent of roses and other flowers occasionally wafted through the air, carried by a wandering zephyr. It seemed as though the inhabitants had all gone to a feast in the neighbouring hills. What would they say to the two strangers who wandered into their city, uninvited, while they were away?

It was comforting to think the people of Mithlond had simply gone on some long, unannounced holiday and would return at any time. It made the place less eerie. The illusion was shattered when they passed a house where the ivy, growing wild, had cracked the window shutters. Haleth quickly averted her eyes and discovered that Inglor was ahead of her. She rushed after him, walking so closely behind that she stepped on his heels.

‘Empty,’ he said.

Haleth sighed and examined her boots to avoid looking at her surroundings.

‘I have a hole in my boot,’ she said conversationally.

‘Haleth,’ said Inglor.

‘I shall have to repair it. It’s a pity the cobblers have all gone.’

‘Haleth.’

‘I shall have to do it myself,’ she babbled. ‘Fortunately, I have my own supplies and a great deal of practice.”

‘Haleth!’ cried Inglor.

‘Yes?’ she asked calmly.

‘Will you take my hand?’ he asked, holding out his hand to her.

‘I’m not a child in need of comfort, Inglor,’ she said with wounded dignity.

‘Two ages of the world have passed since I have been accounted a child, yet there are still times when I am in need of comfort,’ he said.

Haleth bit her lip, abashed by his response to her bravado. She grinned and took his hand in hers and together they passed through the empty, echoing streets.

They wound their way through the laneways, moving steadily downhill towards the water, when they suddenly rounded a corner and found themselves on the riverside. It was here that Haleth could no longer maintain her comfortable illusion that the population of Mithlond was somewhere nearby. The waters of the Lhûn, which had always teemed with ships no matter the time of day or the season of the year, were completely empty as were the many docks that lined the waterfront. Nothing, not even the smallest dinghy, could be seen. Only the gulls circling above the water kept the waves company.

‘They really have gone,’ Haleth thought forlornly. ‘And Middle-earth has lost a little more of her magic.’

To distract herself, she examined the settlement on the opposite side of the river. The shore, like this side of the river, was lined with empty docks. A large, squat building surrounded by parkland dominated the waterfront. The piers lining the shore gave way to skeletal cranes and the dry docks. From past visits, Haleth knew it was the ship works where Círdan and his people had fashioned the boats that took the Elves into the West.

Upstream from the ship works was Círdan’s Hall, its white, marble walls gleaming in the afternoon light. Further inland were the homes and shops of the Falathrim, smaller, yet no less beautiful than their Lord’s hall.

On the highest point of land behind Círdan’s Hall stood the delicate towers of Gil-galad’s castle. Beyond it, between the trees and the buildings were glimpses of the city walls.

‘I’ve always wondered why Círdan never lived in the castle,’ said Haleth.

Inglor’s face took on its typical expression of mild bemusement. ‘Why did you not ask Círdan?’

‘It seemed like a rather personal question,’ shrugged Haleth. ‘I did not wish to offend him.’

‘Why would it have offended him?’ wondered Inglor.

‘I don’t know,’ said Haleth. ‘Elves are offended by strange things.’

The remark was lost upon Inglor, for whom Elves were a most reasonable and predictable people. Mortals, on the other hand, were a complete mystery. At one time he would have shared this observation, but experience told him that Haleth might have an odd, unpredictable and possibly violent reaction to it. As she seemed especially volatile today, he kept his observations to himself.

‘We need to cross the river?’ asked Haleth.

‘Yes,’ said Inglor.

‘How shall we manage? Shall we use a bridge or shall we try to find a boat?’ she asked.

Twin delicate spans joined the two halves of Mithlond. The bridges were narrow and high enough to allow the tallest ship’s masts to pass under them without trouble.

Side by side, they crossed the downstream bridge. The added height gave an unimpeded view of the entire city. Haleth stopped at the centre of the bridge to examine both halves of Mithlond. Even from this distance it was impossible to ignore the desolation of the place.

‘How long will these stand, I wonder?’ she asked.

‘Saving deliberate destruction, these bridges will only last a few millennia,’ Inglor replied.

Haleth’s eyebrows shot upwards but she refrained from commenting on the use of the word ‘only’ in conjunction with the phrase ‘last a few millennia.’

‘I doubt anyone would deliberately destroy them,’ she said. ‘They are far too useful.’

‘It seems that is often a key reason for mortals to destroy things,’ said Inglor.

Haleth thoughtfully eyed the parapet of the bridge but decided against shoving her companion over the side; it would only prove him right. She grunted wordlessly and resumed walking.

Inglor took her question to mean she had a general interest in the life expectancy of elven ruins. ‘The other structures, the castle and the halls, will last much longer, of course,’ he said. ‘They were made, for the most part, by my people.’

Haleth did not listen.

A short time later they stood in front of Círdan’s Hall.

‘I’ve always wondered about this place,’ said Haleth. The hall was not the way she remembered it. The doors had always been open, even on cold winter nights, and there had always been a light in the tower that rose above the main body of the hall. Now the doors were closed and, judging by the vine that covered half of woodwork, they had been that way for quite some time.

‘How so?’ asked Inglor.

‘Círdan was a great Elf Lord and yet this place seems so ordinary,’ she said.

‘Cirdan would laugh to hear you call him a great lord,’ said Inglor, his voice filled with gentle humour.

‘But he is…was a great lord,’ Haleth insisted. ‘At least he was accounted as one among my people. He and his folk built the ships that first brought us to…’ she stopped abruptly.

‘To where, Haleth?’ Inglor asked gently.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, frowning.

‘And if you could sail anywhere, where would you go?’ he asked.

‘What?’ she asked. The question caught her off guard.

‘If you could sail anywhere, where would you go?’ he repeated.

‘Well…I…don’t know,’ said Haleth slowly. ‘I don’t really have anywhere to go.

‘Besides,’ she continued, scanning the empty docks. ‘It’s not like I’ll have the opportunity to sail anywhere. All of the ships are gone.’

‘I shall build another,’ said Inglor.

His words lanced through Haleth’s heart. How could she have been so blind? Of course he came to Mithlond because he planned to go home. A child could have seen it but she had been willfully blind. ‘I’ve been a fool!’ she silently berated herself. ‘I should have left him when I had the chance. I should have stayed in Lake Town. I should have stayed in Mirk…in Las Galen, or whatever they’re calling it these days and fought the giant spiders. I should have kept my word to myself. I should have left him before he could leave me!’

The gulls soared over the empty docks. Her hopes and expectations had been shattered, but the world was carrying on as though nothing untoward had occurred. It should be grey and raining rather than sunnyl. She glared at the calm water as though it had personally offended her.

Then she mentally shook herself; she was being childish.

Haleth slowly came back to herself and found Inglor studying her expectantly. Her eyes stung and there was a lump in her throat. She cleared her throat self-consciously.

‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she croaked.

‘I asked if you would please help me?’ he said.

Haleth stared at him in disbelief.

‘Why don’t you just carve my heart out with your dagger while you’re at it?’ she thought bitterly.

She wanted to scream at him, to beat him with her fists until he acknowledged the pain he was causing. 'I should have shoved him off the bridge.'

But Inglor had always been kind to her. He had rescued her more often than she cared to remember. He had always watched her back and had been, to the best of his strange, incomprehensible ability, a very good friend. It was hardly his fault she had fallen in love with him. When she was honest, which she did not want to be, she had to admit that Inglor had done nothing to encourage her tender feelings. He had no idea how his request made her feel.

And that, at least, was a small comfort.

As much as she wanted to slap his face and scream at him, she would feel badly later. He would not understand and it would spoil the little time they had left together.

He was her only friend and he had asked for her help. That much, at least, she could give him.

‘Of course I will,’ she said, proud of the steadiness of her voice.

He suddenly closed the distance between them and gently cupped her face. His hand was cool against her hot skin.

‘Haleth, are you well?’ he asked gently.

‘Well? Yes! Of course I’m well. Why wouldn’t I be well? I was well when I woke up this morning,’ she spluttered as she edged away from him. Her mind flayed for some way to change the subject.

‘We’ll need lumber,” she said, turning her back on him and wiping her burning eyes.

‘We’ll have to cut a few trees,’ she added. It had been a very long time since she had been involved in fashioning a boat. There were basic steps to follow, materials to be gathered. The trees would have to be cut and transported to Mithlond, which could take several weeks. Beams of various sizes and shapes would have to be split from the tree trunks and left to cure and that certainly would take months. It could be several seasons before construction could begin.

As well, they would need strong wool or linen for the sail and goodness knew where they would get it. The Hobbits might make serviceable sail cloth, but it seemed unlikely; from the little Haleth knew of them, the Hobbits were not sailors. She might be able to get the raw yarn from them, but it would take a very long time to weave the cloth, assuming she could find a working loom in Mithlond. And if they could not, there would take time to build one.

Above that, there was pitch to be gathered to tar the outer hull to keep out the sea. It would take time for the tar to set properly. All together, it would be months to gather the raw materials and that did not include the amount of time it would take to make all of the necessary tools.

Haleth’s spirits brightened considerably as she tallied up all of the factors that would delay Inglor’s final departure. It could be at least a year before the vessel would be seaworthy and this did not include the time they would need to secure the supplies he would need on his voyage.

‘That should not be necessary. I am certain Círdan has left sufficient raw materials for several ships to be made.

An involuntary bark of laughter burst from her lips.

‘Haleth?’ Inglor asked, concerned again.

Laughing mirthlessly, she motioned him away, shaking her head to show her continued good health.

‘I suppose we should find these materials,’ she said, stifling her hysteria.

‘Yes,’ said Inglor. ‘Let us look inside the old workshops. The supplies and tools should be there.’

They passed around the back of a small building that was built directly on the water’s edge.  An elven ship upon a starlit sea was depicted on the side.    

‘This was Círdan’s workshop,’ said Haleth.  The foam of the sea was traced in pearls and the stars were beryls. ‘It is so beautiful. It must have been difficult for Círdan to have left it, especially after so much time.’

Inglor examined the artwork.  ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly. ‘But time weighs heavily upon these shores.  Much has changed since the Eldest…Elder Days.  Círdan and his folk left many other places behind.’

‘But that was out of necessity,’ said Haleth. It was far too easy to imagine Inglor in that ship, sailing away without her.  The mural seemed to dance before her eyes and she blinked furiously.  ‘Either because they were destroyed by an attacking army or because they were….’ The light of day faded while the ground trembled beneath her feet.  ‘Gone,’ she finished, shivering.

‘Drowned. Beleriand was drowned. How the world has changed.  Nothing is as it was,’ Inglor’s voice sounded as though it came from the depths of the ocean.

The weight of years settled upon Haleth.  The world had indeed changed; it had moved along without her.  Inglor’s companionship, as frustrating as it could be, had enabled her to forget this.  His departure would strip away the comforting illusion.  She would be alone and purposeless, left upon the shores of Middle-earth like so much rubbish.  Her shoulders slumped at the thought of a bleak, lonely future. 

Inglor made his way around Círdan’s workshop.  Haleth followed him, too deeply involved in her own self-pity to take further notice of her surroundings.  One instant they were walking, the next they were standing still. 

Inglor was in front of a door that led into a large, squat building.

‘Is it locked?  Half a moment.’ She reached into one of her many hidden pockets and produced a lock pick. 

‘Thank-you but that should not be necessary,’ he said, holding the door open for her. 

A dart of motion caught her eye as she entered the building.  Had Inglor slipped something up his sleeve?  No.  She had to have imagined it.

The room she stepped into was cavernous.  The light came from two high rows of windows that ran along both sides of the building.  Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that poured through the glass.

At one time the place would have been filled with the pounding of hammers and the songs of the Falathrim as they laboured upon the delicate ships meant to sail to the Furthermost West.  Now the only sound was the dull clumping of her boots across the floor. 

Inglor walked past her, moving with a purpose.  Haleth glared resentfully at his back as she stalked after him, absently noting shelves and workbenches along the way.  The echoes of her footsteps filled the room until it seemed as though an army was marching through the workshop.

Several piles of lumber were neatly stacked along the walls.  He examined the long, curved beams that Haleth imagined were meant to be keels.  A large lump formed in her throat.  She swallowed hard and coughed.  It would be mortally embarrassing to burst into tears.  There had to be something useful she could do. 

Turning away, her eyes lighted upon a workbench.  A set of plain but serviceable tools lay arranged on it.  She clomped over to it, silently cursing Inglor.  He was immortal.  What were a few decades to him?  Surely he could stay until she died of old age?  It wasn’t as though she expected to reach a ripe old age in any case.  With the life she led, she was rather surprised to have lasted as long as she had, which made it all the more unfair that he should leave now.

The tools lay before her.  They were plain, as far as elvish tools went, but more than serviceable.  She wondered if the elf who had left them here missed them in Valinor.  The very idea was risible.  Valinor was a paradise; nothing of Middle-earth would be worthy of regret or remembrance. 

Her eyes were burning again.  It had to be the dust. 

Without pausing to consider, she took the first two tools that came to her hands and stalked back towards Inglor, fuming the entire time.  Of course Inglor would not think of her once he sailed.  She examined his profile and wished he wasn’t so handsome. He would not think of her but she would never cease to remember him. 

The tools clattered onto the floor as Haleth tossed them at Inglor’s feet.  He leapt and whirled around.  ‘I though I’d get the tools,’ she said hoarsely.

‘That was thoughtful of you. Thank-you,’ he said. 

Haleth was seized by the uncomfortable urge to laugh and cry at the same time.  She made a wordless grunt and stormed back to the workbench, stomping like a warhorse the entire way.

Why did he have to be so unfailingly polite?  It was so much easier to shout at someone who was rude.  But Inglor was incapable of rudeness.  He was hardly able to raise his voice.  She grabbed another pair of tools and stalked back to the woodpile. 

The sharp report of metal hitting stone reverberated through the room as she half threw, half dropped them onto the floor.  She thought she saw Inglor wince.  No.  He couldn’t wince.  That was such a mortal thing to do.

‘Have you found what you need?’ she growled.

‘I…’ he began.

‘Good,’ she snapped before marching to the workbench once more.  If he had to leave, she wished he would just leave.  It would be like losing a tooth. The initial pain would be intense, but it would eventually fade. Living in close quarters with him for the time it took to build the ship would be slow torture. 

No.  The torture would come after he had sailed out of sight forever.

Another pair of tools sailed passed Inglor, narrowly missing him.  They bounced off the woodpile and clattered onto the floor.  Inglor clutched his ears as the noise reverberated around the room.  It sounded as though an invading army was pounding a battering ram against the doors.

‘Haleth?’ he said when the echoes had died away.

‘What?’

‘There are smaller workshops, I believe I would rather work in one of them.’

Haleth sighed and rolled her eyes.  It was all one of the same to her.

‘Fine.  Shouldn’t we take the tools with us?’ she said as he headed for the door. 

‘There should be another set elsewhere,’ he said as he bent to pick up the six hammers that littered the ground. ‘Besides, I believe we will need a larger variety than what seems to be available here.’ 

A/N  I'm afraid I must apologize to anyone who has already read this update. There are several versions of this story lurking on my hard drive and because I am pathologically disorganized, I posted the wrong chapter. I'm very sorry for the confusion this is bound to cause.

Once again, I must thank my beta readers, Aearwen, Ithryn and the wonderful ladies at the Garden of Ithilien.  Any remaining mistakes are my own.

The murmuring of the wood rasp was replaced the pounding of an adze. Haleth sat up and glared at Inglor. He was clearly visible in the gloaming of the workshop. His face was a study in concentration as he carved a plank that would be one of the final strakes into perfect proportions.

‘You awakened me,’ she said accusingly.

‘I am sorry, Haleth. I thought you were already awake. Your breathing had changed.’ Each sentence was punctuated by the thud of the adze upon the wood.

She groaned and sat up, savagely brushing the wood shavings from her hair and clothing. Inglor continued working. It was tempting to distract him by asking him if he had ever heard of the concept of sleeping in.

There was little point. Since he had begun work upon his ship, Inglor had been uncharacteristically immune to distraction. He would speak to her, of course—to ignore her would have been impolite – but he would not stop working. So she signed and stumbled to her feet.

After careful consideration, they had taken up residence in Círdan’s workshop. Haleth had been reluctant, feeling this to be disrespectful of the absent Lord of Mithlond, but Inglor had no such qualms; it was not as though Círdan would have any further use of it.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and glared at the ship. It was being constructed far too quickly for her taste. When she had made her bed in the nest of wood shavings on the workshop floor, only the keel had been in place. Working alone through the night, Inglor appeared to have finished attaching the stem and had started on the stern. The sooner the boat was finished, the sooner they would part.

Haleth was beginning to truly resent Inglor’s single-mindedness.

There had been several occasions when she had considered setting the entire thing on fire but common sense, combined with the fear of Inglor’s puzzled, disappointed reaction, had kept her from carrying the idea through.

‘We should be able to start on the strakes tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I was planning on beginning the strakes this evening,’ said Inglor, who was examining the joints between the keel and the stern.

Haleth winced. Her throat tightened and her eyes began to burn. It was bad enough that he was leaving her. Did he have to be in such a rush?

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

‘Well enough, thank-you,’ grunted Haleth, whose night had been disturbed by the dream of a white ship sailing into the West while she was left alone and bereft on the shores of Middle-earth.

‘I believe I am hungry. Would you care for some breakfast?’ Inglor seemed mildly surprised at his body’s audacity to demand food.

‘Thank-you, I would,’ said Haleth. It sounded as though Inglor was offering to make breakfast. This lifted her spirits a little. The more time he spent doing other things, the longer it would take him to finish the ship.

‘There may be some eggs from yesterday,’ said Inglor absently as he inspected the joints between the keel and the stems.

‘Yes,’ said Haleth shortly, not at all happy that Inglor was obliquely backing out of his veiled offer to cook.

‘Good,’ said Inglor as he turned back to his work.

Haleth groaned inwardly. With Inglor obsessed with building the ship, all of the mundane chores like gathering food, drawing water and cooking had been left to her. The suspicious, resentful part of her mind wondered if he wanted a servant more than a partner. ‘I’ll call you when it’s ready,’ she said as she headed for the door, not waiting for an acknowledgement.

She stormed off to the house they were using to store their supplies and cook, oblivious to the magnificent summer morning. The sky was free of clouds and birdsong filled the air. It promised to be a perfectly lovely day of the sort that Haleth always loved, but she was too busy with her resentful thoughts to notice.

There were two eggs left from the duck’s nest she had raided the previous day. Between that and some dried meat and fruit they had bought from one of the Hobbit farmers, there should be enough to carry them through most of the day. There was no bread, of course, which Haleth deeply regretted. The lack was somehow Inglor’s fault. If he were a true friend, he would have bartered for flour so that she could have had bread. Was a simple thing like that too much to ask?

She shook her head, disgusted with herself. The sun had barely cleared the horizon; it was far too early for bitter thoughts. Besides, she had made a vow to herself to make the best of the limited time she had left with Inglor and brooding over the situation would hardly make things pleasant. She told herself this over and over again as she lit a cooking fire and prepared breakfast.

Her thoughts turned to the practical matter of the food supply. If they were going to eat tomorrow, she would have to search for food today.

Mithlond offered many unaccustomed luxuries, for while the Elves had taken many of their personal belongings with them; they had left many others behind. Several days of dedicated scrounging through the abandoned houses had yielded a decent collection of mismatched plates and cutlery. There was a hearth to cook in; though as the days grew warmer Haleth would cook outside to avoid the worst of the heat.

She considered staying here after Inglor sailed; it was pleasant enough, there were enough material things for her to be comfortable. She would not really have to clean house; there were enough of them that she could move from one to the other whenever things got too dirty. The only drawback was that it would be so empty, especially when everything around her reminded her of Inglor so much that she would die of loneliness.

It was a ridiculous conceit as she had survived for years without home or companionship. But that was the problem with luxuries: it was easy to grow accustomed to having them; and once you did, it was exceedingly difficult to get along without them.

She carefully banked the cooking fire before loading a platter with food, plates and cutlery and making her way back to the workshop. ‘Breakfast is….umph!’

Inglor had been carrying a long plank. He spun around at the sound of her voice, forcing her to jump out of the way. Haleth struggled to regain her balance while keeping her grip on the tray.

There was an enormous crash as the board landed on the floor. Before Haleth realized what had happened, Inglor had taken the tray.

‘Shall we partake of this meal?’ he said when the last of the resounding echoes had died away.

Haleth grimaced and nodded. She followed him into the summer morning. He put the tray down by the side of the river and took a plate. They ate in silence, watching the water flow past.

‘It will soon be Midsummer,’ said Haleth to make conversation. It would distract her from the eggs, which were cold and rubbery.

‘It is,’ said Inglor as he studied the sky. ‘I had hoped to be home in time for the Midsummer’s feast.’

The food turned to ashes in her mouth. Was he in that big a rush to leave her? Closing her eyes and biting her lip, she placed her plate on the ground, her appetite destroyed.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Inglor asked politely.

‘No,’ said Haleth. She would have liked to say a great deal more, but with a supreme act of will she limited herself to the one, defiant syllable.

‘You should eat more, there is a gaunt look about you,’ Inglor advised her.

‘What do you care? Soon you won’t have to hurt your eyes by looking at me anymore,’ Haleth thought sourly.

They finished their meal in silence, with Inglor using manners one might expect to find at a king’s table while Haleth picked at her food in a desultory way. When he was finished, Inglor delicately wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin, thanked Haleth for the food, and went directly back to the workshop and the ship.

Haleth picked up the abandoned plates and followed in his wake, torn somewhere between fury and tears. She was not surprised to notice he had already attached one of the strakes.

‘You’ve been busy,’ she commented.

Inglor nodded, already distracted. If the ship had been a woman, Haleth would have hit it. Not wanting to hurt her fist for no reason, she picked up an axe and eyed the construction speculatively.

‘Haleth, there is something I would ask of you,’ Inglor said.

‘Oh?’ said Haleth, thrusting the axe behind her back.

Haleth thought Inglor’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. But he continued on in the same, calm tone of voice he always used and she dismissed the impression as a trick of the light.

‘The craft of the shipwright is dependent upon the knowledge of wood. Those with a more discerning eye than mine selected the trees that would be sacrificed so this ship could be made. It falls to me to choose wisely from what they left behind. My forefathers, with the counsel of Ossë, constructed the Swan Ships that carried them to the Blessed Realm.

‘My skill cannot be compared to theirs, yet they taught me as well as they could, for I was eager to learn. The hard, straight wood of the oak is favoured in all things, save only the mast. The mast shall be of a softer, more pliant wood; perhaps spruce or pine.’

He gently caressed the stems of the ship as he spoke. There was a far away gleam in his eyes. Haleth’s teeth ground together. ‘Yet the craft of the shipwright is not limited to wood alone,’ he finally said. ‘For a ship to sail well, the work of the weaver and sail maker is of equal importance.’

Haleth’s grip convulsively tightened around the axe. She had a good idea of where all of this flowery speech was leading and did not approve of the destination.

‘I would ask you, as a friend, to fashion the sail for this ship.’

Her thoughts caroomed around her head. ‘It’s bad enough that you’re leaving without you asking me to help you to get away faster!’ But to voice such thoughts would be ignoble. With an effort, she swallowed her anger.

‘It has been many, many years since I last worked a loom,’ she said when she could trust herself to speak.

‘As there was wood to fashion the ship, so there will be fabric to fashion a sail,’ said Inglor.

‘I haven’t seen any,’ said Haleth.

‘It is here. I am certain of it,’ he said.

‘Even if there is, I doubt that my sewing skills can be compared to those of elvish embroiderers,’ she said.

He blinked and patiently waited for her to explain herself.

‘I strongly suspect your triumphant return will lose effect with a plain, unremarkable and quite probably crooked sail,’ she said.

He gazed at her in mild confusion.

‘If I make the sail, it will be plain,’ she said.

‘Plain?’ echoed Inglor without understanding.

Haleth deliberately placed the axe on the workbench. The temptation to use it to pound sense into him was nearly overwhelming. ‘I will not embroider a device upon the sail, Inglor,’ she said. ‘We would be here for seven years.’

No sooner had the words left Haleth’s mouth than she regretted them. Working one of the complex designs of elven heraldry into a sail would have taken her months and could have delayed his departure until the following spring. She held her breath and hoped he would demand she embroider several designs upon a large canvas sail and possibly several more for a spare.

‘Why would that matter?’ he asked.

‘A seven year delay would not trouble you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why would having a ship with a plain sail matter?’

‘Well…that is….I thought all of your people’s ships were intricately decorated,’ she stammered. ‘The ships of Falathrim certainly were.’

‘The sails are decorated now for we have had sufficient time to make them so,’ said Inglor.

‘But the sails of Eärendil’s ships are highly decorated in every picture or tapestry I’ve ever seen,’ she said in confusion.

‘The history of Middle-earth would have been very different if Eärendil had insisted upon waiting for Vingilot's sail to be embroidered before he journeyed into the West,’ said Inglor in amusement.

‘I suppose,’ Haleth conceded. ‘But still, it will look strange when your sail is unadorned and off centre.’

‘I doubt it will be off centre. So long as it serves its function well, it’s appearance matters not,’ said Inglor.

Haleth looked dubious.

‘Please?’ he asked.

‘Oh, fine!’ she snapped. ‘Now where shall we search first?’

‘There should be some sailcloth on the shelves of the larger workshops,’ said Inglor as he turned back to his work.

Minutes later Haleth was once again stalking through the streets of Mithlond alone, muttering under her breath.

She arrived at the largest workshop and glared at it. The building was directly upon the shore; with one wall supported by pilings that had been driven into the riverbed. There were three large double doors evenly spaced upon the walls overlooking the water. In earlier days these would have been open throughout most of the year to admit light and fresh air for the Círdan and his people as they laboured. They had closed the doors when they had left. Haleth doubted they would ever open again until time wore the hinges away and they fell into the water to be carried downstream.

Deftly picking the lock, she let herself into the workshop. The room was dark after the brilliant light of the morning and she had to wait a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Little by little she could make out the details around her. The room was truly cavernous. When the elves had lived here, it had rung with the sound of hammer and axe and song. Now they were gone and the stillness seemed to be more than the mere absence of sound. The building itself seemed to mourn their passing. The silence was the silence of a mourner. Haleth found herself holding her breath and walking on tiptoe to avoid disturbing it.

She picked her way around the room, ignoring the tool benches and the neatly piled stacks of wood. There had to be material for sails somewhere. It would be almost impossible for any ship, even an elven ship, to make its way across the Straight Road without a sail. If the elves had left wood, they must have left sailcloth as well.

The canvas would be stored near the place where the sails were made. Sail making required a large, clear area. The workshop, no matter how spacious it seemed now, would have been too crowded to accommodate the sail makers when the elves had been in residence. There was most likely a loft above the main workshop. She stayed close to the walls, searching for a staircase or ladder.

She eventually found what she was looking for half way across the room. The narrow ladder hung between two shelves. Quickly ascending, she reached another cavernous room. The windows on this floor were larger and the light dazzled her eyes as she pulled herself into the loft.

Haleth squinted about. There was an enormous set of shelves stacked with rolls of cloth. As she approached, she noted that most of the canvas was the colour of plain wool or flax, but several bolts had been dyed. The most popular colour was blue, although there were also several shades of green and gold.

A muted sparkle caught her eye. When she looked closer, Haleth discovered a bolt of material that glimmered like starlight upon the water. She tentatively ran her fingertip along it and discovered it was as smooth as water to the touch. Silk! It had to be silk. It had been years since Haleth had seen the material last, and only in far smaller quantities and in a much looser weave. She wondered how the elves had come by such a larger quantity of it. Círdan, she knew, had been a great sailor. How far had he or his people travelled to find this?

Inglor, she was certain, would like it. It might even coax a smile to his face when he saw it. Haleth reflected that it would be good to see Inglor smile again; his facial expressions were always muted, but he had become downright stone faced since he had begun work on the ship.

Stupid ship.

Side-stepping a tide of resentment, Haleth pushed aside thoughts of Inglor and his ship and concentrated on the task at hand. The silver silk was in the centre of the stack. Taking hold of the edge, she tugged on it experimentally, but the cloth refused to budge.

Undeterred, she took a firmer grip, planted her feet and pulled harder but to no avail. She tried shaking the silk, forcing it to one side then the other as she pulled it outwards, but the entire bolt was firmly wedged in place. She pulled and pulled until an ominous ripping sound interrupted the silence. Then she stood back, frowned and took stock of the situation.

The bolt in question was in the exact centre of the shelf and was wedged between at least a dozen others. She tried moving a few of the neighbouring bolts with no better success. The only course of action was to knock several bolts on to the floor. This would hopefully loosen things enough for her to wiggle the silver silk cloth out of the pile.

Moving to the end of the shelf, she grasped the first canvas and pulled on it with all of her might. The fabric resisted at first then moved fractionally towards her.

She paused to consider. The bolts were large; even if she managed to move one on to the floor it would be impossible for her to put it back. She could go and get Inglor, but, besides the blow to her pride, he would not be happy with the interruption. She glanced around the dim vastness of the room hoping to find a small hoist that could help her with her task.

Common sense finally asserted itself; it was a ridiculous amount of effort for so frivolous a thing, especially when she had insisted the sail would be plain. With a last, regretful look at the silver silk, Haleth turned her attention to something more accessible.

A bolt of raw canvas sat on the end of the shelf. It was bland and unremarkable, but had the definite advantage of being accessible. Even though it was not as tightly wedged as the other rolls of sailcloth it was still heavy and unwieldy. It took a considerable amount of effort to turn the roll enough to free the cloth.

By the time she had what she thought might be sufficient canvas for a sail, Haleth was hot, frustrated and hungry. The air in the old workshop was warm to the point of being stifling. The sense that she was intruding, which she had forgotten while she had fought with the canvas, returned ten-fold.

Anxious to be out of the oppressive atmosphere, she cut a long swath of cloth and hastily folded it. She had just hoisted the heavy canvas into her arms when she realized she did not have either the proper tools or enough thread to fashion a sail. Staggering under the weight of the canvas, she explored the area around the storage shelves.

Sure enough there was a cupboard nearby. She was unable to open it while burdened with the canvas, however, and she had no wish to return. Cursing under her breath, Haleth dropped the cloth on a nearby workbench and rummaged through the cupboard. A quick examination revealed several boxes containing the tools of the sail-maker. One kit was particularly lovely; the picks, serving board and seam rubber were inlaid with silver. The only problem was that the roping palm was too large for her hand. After a moment of agonizing, for it seemed criminal to not keep all of the beautiful tools together, she exchanged it for a smaller one in a different kit. There would be more than enough time to put things right after Inglor set sail. Several large spools of heavy thread completed her pillaging.

Something glinted at the bottom of the cupboard. To Haleth’s surprise it was a pair of delicately made scissors, the handles fashioned in the shape of a heron with the blades as its legs. It seemed a strange thing to have left at the bottom of a sail maker’s cupboard. Someone must have lost them; their owner must be in the Blessed Realm.

She wondered if she should put them back or give them to Inglor. It seemed likely the owner would want them again, even if there were better scissors available in Valinor. But maybe they had been left here deliberately to be used by the next ship building elves. Judging by the amount of canvas on the shelves, Círdan was expecting a great many elves to use the old workshop.

With a sigh of regret, Haleth put them back where she had found them before retrieving the cloth and making her way into the daylight.

Once again I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

Haleth jabbed her needle into a piece of leather, stretched and rubbed the small of her back. Sitting cross-legged and hunched for several hours had left her stiff, even though she had leaned against the wall.

She surveyed her handiwork. The sail was slowly taking on shape with three panels completed and joined together. In spite of her initial doubts about her needle working abilities, the seams were straight.

There was much more work to be done but she lacked Inglor’s endurance. Not only were her back and fingers stiff, her stomach was reminding her it was well past noon.

She swung down the ladder into the main workshop area, leaving the stack of canvas and the wide window of the sail-making loft behind her. The workshop was relatively dim. Inglor, who was examining the ship with a look of concentration men reserve for their lover, shone softly in the darkness.

Haleth glared at the half assembled craft. There had been several occasions when she had considered setting the entire thing on fire but common sense, combined with the fear of Inglor’s puzzled, disappointed reaction, kept her from carrying the idea through.

She forced herself to look at the craft with the objective eyes of a shipbuilder. At least half of the strakes had been placed. Beams attached to the floor supported the structure so that Inglor could straighten the strakes before clinkering them together.

‘We should be able to start the frame tomorrow,’ she said.

‘I was planning on beginning the frame this afternoon,’ said Inglor, who was now examining the joints between the strakes.

Haleth winced. Her throat tightened and her eyes burned. It was bad enough that he was leaving her. Did he have to be in such a rush? ‘I’m going to see about lunch,’ she said, leaving before he could acknowledge her announcement.

The cool, overcast weather suited her dark mood. A stiff breeze blew out of the west, so the air outside the shelter of the workshop was considerably cooler. Haleth marched to the waterside to watch the river flow past and remind herself to show restraint. It was one of the most difficult things she had ever done; the attitude of resigned nobility was completely against the grain of her personality. She doubted she would remain unsarcastic for much longer.

Except at the rate Inglor was building the ship, it would soon cease to be a problem.

A lump welled in her throat at the thought of wandering Middle-earth alone. She was perfectly capable as she had done it for years before Inglor’s unexpected arrival. For all that he could infuriate her and all of the frustration he caused, the prospect of life without him was very bleak.

The wind grew stronger and Haleth was tempted to go back into the workshop to retrieve her cloak for she had been feeling the elements more lately. But if she went back inside, not only would she be admitting her frailty, she would have to face Inglor and the ship.

Her stomach growled as stood, frowning at the door of the workshop, shifting her weight from foot to foot. In the end the cold won and she decided to get the cloak.

She entered the workshop to find Inglor proofing one of the final strakes. He did not so much as spare her a glance as she shook the wood shavings out of her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. The lack of attention made it much easier to ignore him.

Back in the light of day, Haleth tried to decide what to gather. It was too cold to sit at the end of the dock and fish. She should check the snares she had laid out the day before. On the way she could scrounge through the old gardens and see what she could find.

The empty streets of Mithlond were more familiar but not any more welcoming. It began to rain before she had checked half the snares; a light, drizzle that was heavy enough to be annoying while not hard enough to justify seeking shelter. She pulled her hood over her head and soldiered on.

The first snares were empty; her depredations were already taking a toll on the local rabbit population. The fifth yielded a plump, young rabbit which lifted Haleth's sodden spirits. She quickly cleaned it. Once she had returned to the workshop she would skin it and cure the pelt. As she was feeling the cold, she intended to fashion a fur cloak for the winter. Admittedly she would resemble nothing so much as a Wildman from Dunland, but the birds and wild animals never seemed to mind the manner in which she was dressed.

She paused to gather some sage and parsley that were growing wild in one of the old gardens. The next snare was also empty, but there the garden in which it was set yielded lettuce and a few wild onions. Satisfied this would be enough for a stew, she began to make her way back to the workshop.

With the rabbit slung over her shoulder, a fist full of lettuce and her pockets crammed with herbs, she threaded her way through the wet streets, whistling loudly as she went.

It began to rain harder. Cursing under her breath, she lowered her head and ran. She rounded a corner and halted so quickly her boots skidded on the wet cobbles.

A dwarf stood before her. Chain glittered beneath his dark green cloak and hood. His beard was so thick that it nearly obscured his entire face. Only the area around the eyes and the end of his large nose were free of hair. Haleth barely noticed any of this. Most of her attention was occupied by the battle-axe blade that was inches away from her face.

They regarded each other in mutual surprise. The dwarf, his deep-set eyes glittering beneath his helmet, hefted his battle-axe and studied her in a penetrating way as though he was a tree and he was trying to decide the best way to chop her down.

Haleth's first reaction was to reach for her knives, but the dwarf was too close. She would be dead before the blades reached her hand.

She tried to remember dwarvish manners. It was exceedingly difficult to concentrate with imminent death glaring up at her.

'Good day to you,' she said.

The dwarf frowned. Haleth winced when she realized she had spoken Sindarin instead of Common.

'I mean, hello,' she stammered, switching to the Common Tongue. 'Haleth at your service.' She bowed low to the ground. The rabbit slipped off her shoulder and landed in a puddle with a wet splat.

'Froi! Where are you?'

A second dwarf rounded the corner. He saw Haleth, bent in two, the rabbit lying in the puddle and laughed harshly.

'What have we here, a Raider?'

'I'm not so sure,' said Froi.

'It's human. It's certainly dressed badly enough to be a Raider,' said the second dwarf who eyed her up and down suspiciously.

Haleth slowly straightened up. The newcomer wore a deep red hood. His beard was not as thick as Froi's. It was braided in and stuck through his belt. Like Froi, he carried a wickedly sharp battleaxe.

'But this one is female and very poorly armed,' said Froi. 'None of the Raiders have been women.'

'Pardon me, gentledwarves but what is a Raider?' Haleth asked.

The dwarves studied her and hefted their battleaxes thoughtfully.

'I think you should come with us,' Froi finally said.

Haleth had little choice in the matter.

They crossed the bridge. The wind had picked up and threatened to push Haleth off the span. The dwarves had taken the rabbit from her. She was somewhat grateful for this as it left both hands to hold her hood over her head and to keep her cloak closed.

The dwarves spoke to each other in their strange, guttural language. Haleth had never been able to pick up more than a smattering of it. As the words she knew were mostly curses, it was impossible to follow their conversation.

The dwarves led her the way that she had originally entered the city. They had set up camp in an abandoned, two-story house near the eastern gate. She was rather surprised to discover how many of them were there. She counted at least four in the yard and six more within the house. Assuming there were others searching the city, there could be at least twenty of them. It seemed a very large number of folk to be visiting a city where there was no one to visit.

Why they were here?

They led her to a room on the second floor and shut the door behind her. She checked the latch and discovered it was unlocked. Before opening the door she dropped to her knees and carefully peered at the shadows in the hallway. It was immediately evident they had posted a guard. There would be no escape that way.

Climbing to her feet, she quickly took in her surroundings. The room was dimly lit, the only light filtered through a pair of closed shutters. The only stick of furniture was an old bedstead that had been shoved against one wall. The mattress was gone, presumably taken by the dwarves to be used elsewhere, leaving only the ropes that had supported the mattress and the frame.

Ignoring the bed, Haleth crossed the room and examined the window. It should be a relatively simple thing to crawl out the window and make her way back to the workshop. On the off chance that the dwarves might find her trail and follow her, she would enlist Inglor’s aid. Inglor seemed to have a special understanding of dwarves and dwarven etiquette. He would be able to explain the situation to them. Haleth had long accepted the fact that while people were not inclined to believe her, even when she spoke an obvious truth, they invariably wanted to believe Inglor.

The shutters were firmly closed and bolted. She tried the bolt and discovered it was stuck. Closer examination showed it had rusted in place. This surprised her to no end. The elves had only left Mithlond five years previously. Most devices of elvish design would last far longer without rusting. She briefly wondered if this particular house had been empty for more than five years. As she would never know, she quickly dismissed the thought and returned to matters at hand.

Reaching in one of her many hidden pockets, she produced a small bottle of oil and carefully applied it to the offending piece of metal. She tried the bolt again. It was still frozen solid, so she applied more force until it screeched in protest. Leaping away from the window, she waited for the door to open and the guard to demand what she had been doing.

Either the guard was deaf or the sound had not been as loud as she thought for no one entered the room.

When her heartbeat returned to normal she went back to the window and resumed her task. It took quite some time, but she was eventually able to wiggle the bolt open without making enough sound to be noticed.

Smiling with grim satisfaction, she next turned her attention to the hinges.

As she worked, the rain began to taper off and the wind died down. Faint noises from the main floor drifted up to her. Deep voices rumbled beneath the floor boards, accompanied by the thump of many boots on the hard, wooden floor. Haleth briefly wondered what the former owner of the house would think of a group of dwarves marauding about the premises in their hard-soled boots. It was amusing to imagine an irrate elf woman shooing the lot of them out the door with her broom.

Once the hinges had been attended to, Haleth gently pushed on a shutter so that it opened by the slightest crack. She peered through the tiny opening and discovered that ivy had grown over the window. So long as she could still open the shutters enough to crawl out, it would not be a barrier. The plant could help her reach the ground if the branches were strong enough.

She peered out through a small hole in the greenery. The window faced west. The sky was clearing in that direction and the sun shone beneath a wrack of storm clouds.

As she watched, two more dwarves came up the garden pathway and entered the house.

Haleth slowly closed the shutters. She would have to wait until darkness fell before she made good her escape.

In the meanwhile, there was nothing to do but sit and wait and listen to her stomach grumble.

With her other tasks complete, her quickly became aware of her hunger. She silently cursed the dwarves for stealing her rabbit, even if she did not have any way to cook it.

She still had the lettuce and onions she had gathered, so she ate an unsatisfying lunch of vegetables. 'I imagine they have bread,’ she thought sourly. ‘They could at least have at least given me some.’

As if on cue the door abruptly swung open. A dwarf entered carrying a large bowl of stew and, wonder of wonders, a slab of bread.

Haleth’s mouth immediately began to water.

She attempted to read the dwarf’s facial expression, but between the dim light and the fact that most of his features were obscured by beard, this proved impossible.

He placed the food on the floor and, without saying a word, left the room.

'Thank-you,' Haleth said to the closed door.

She picked up the bread and sniffed it, anticipating the fresh, wonderful smell.

To her disappointment, it smelled of the bottom of someone's pack.

She tapped it lightly on the side of the bowl. It clunked like something very, very solid.

She raised it to eye level and examined it critically. There were none of the light, delicate holes proper bread should have. On a hunch, she tapped it on the floor. The sound echoed as though she had dropped a rock.

She took an experimental nibble from one corner. As she had expected, it had the consistency of tough plaster.

'Waybread,' she thought miserably. 'I should have known.'

Placing the bread on the floor, she turned her attention to the stew. It, at least, proved to be delicious, even though she suspected the meat was from the rabbit she had snared.

She finished the stew and secreted the bread in one of her pockets. If necessary, she could always use it as a weapon. Dwarves had hard heads, but she doubted even they could withstand a direct blow from a piece of dwarvish waybread.

She placed the empty bowl beside the door and, arranging her cloak as a cushion, sat in a corner to wait for nightfall.

The dwarves had thought she was a Raider. This was a worrying development. Who where these Raiders, where did they come from and what were they about? The dwarves had been ready for battle, which was alarming.

These Raiders could not possibly be hobbits. There had been trouble with bandits near Bree the previous year. She wondered if the remaining ne'r do wells had moved west since the Dúnedain had captured so many of them. Those individuals had been desperately poor. It seemed unlikely that they would worry the dwarves.

She was still pondering this when there was a commotion on the stairs. Haleth leapt to her feet as the door burst open.

Once again I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

Inglor ambled into the room with Froi behind him. 'Oh. There you are. What are you doing here?'

Haleth blinked at Inglor, shook her head and looked at Froi instead. After spending so much time with Inglor, she had grown sensitive to facial expressions. Even with the massive beard, Froi's face was an interesting study in emotions. Irritation, embarrassment and glimmer of hope played upon his features. For whatever reason, Froi did not want to offend Inglor. She could play this for all it was worth, but she might need to deal with the dwarves in the future. It would be best to keep on their good side.

'I was just...invited for dinner?' Haleth offered, hoping she had not overstepped the bounds of good dwarvish manners.

'Oh. Really?' asked Inglor in all innocence. He grew troubled. 'Why did you not invite me?'

Haleth and Froi exchanged quick, panicked looks.

'We...were just about to?' suggested Haleth.

'Of course we were,' said Froi. 'Now come downstairs, honoured guests, and we shall talk while the food is being prepared.

Minutes later Inglor, Haleth and Froi were seated in the main room of the house. The scent of roasting meat filled the air.

They sat on flat pieces of logs that the dwarves had brought into the house. A small, cheerful fire burned in the hearth. The sounds of dwarves busy in the kitchen drifted to them from the back of the house.

A dwarf carrying a platter with three tankards entered the room. He handed one to Froi, one to Inglor and, after a nod from Froi, offered one to Haleth before exiting the room.

Haleth sniffed before taking a drink. The nutty scent of ale filled her nostrils. She took a delicate sip and placed her tankard on the floor. Negotiations with dwarves could be tricky at the best of times and she wanted to keep her wits about her.

Froi took a long pull of ale from his tankard. 'How may I be of service?' he asked.

Inglor regarded him from over the top of his mug. 'To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?' he asked politely.

Froi glanced at the door. 'There have been troubles,' he said in a low voice. 'Not here, but up the coast. There are Raiders in the Gulf of Lhûn. They are drawn by the riches of the abandoned cities of the elves.'

'There are no riches in the empty cities,' said Inglor.

'But there are,' Haleth interrupted, thinking of the mural on outer wall of Círdan’s workshop. She turned to Froi. 'What are they taking?'

'The marble, mainly, and certain other trinkets left behind,' said Froi. 'Though what they want with it I could not tell.'

'How do they transport their plunder?' asked Haleth.

'Ships,' said Froi. 'Black ships.'

'The Corsairs,' said Haleth. 'I should have guessed.'

'But why would the Corsairs have interest in marble?' asked Inglor. 'Surely there are quarries in their own lands.'

'There likely are,' said Haleth. 'But this has already been cut and polished. It is far easier to take it than to do the work themselves and they can claim the materials for their new palace was once part of an elvish throne room.'

Inglor looked troubled. 'I do not understand.'

'She is right,' said Froi. 'When it first began two years ago we thought little of it. There were only a few ships and they did not trouble the dwarves. But there are more each year and the Raiders are growing bolder. It is no longer safe for my people to travel alone along the coastal roads. Even small parties have been waylaid by these ruffians if they think they can get away with it.'

'Why do you not tell the King?' asked Inglor.

'The King surely knows!' responded an offended Froi.

'I believe what my companion meant to ask was have you informed the new King in Gondor?' said Haleth.

Froi seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion. 'Why? What does he care for the problems of the dwarves?'

'They are the problems of the dwarves now,' said Haleth. 'But with every success, as you have noted, the Corsairs grow bolder. How long will it be before they are plundering the coast of Gondor?'

'How long indeed?' asked Froi. 'But until then, he will not trouble with them.'

'He will,' said Haleth. 'What will it cost to ask?' she said and immediately realized it was the wrong thing to say. Froi frowned at the idea of asking a human, even a human king, for aid.

Froi looked questioningly to Inglor.

'King Elessar will help you,' he said.

Froi sat back and stared into the flames. The firelight shone in the dark depths of his eyes. 'I will confer with Frar and advise him to send messengers to the King in Minas Tirith,' he finally said.

'Why is an Elf in Mithlond?' asked Froi. 'I thought all of your kind had sailed for the West five years ago.

'I was unavoidably detained,' said Inglor. He looked directly at Haleth while he spoke.

Haleth shook her head. She was about to voice a denial, but at that instant several dwarves burst into the room. They quickly set up a trestle table and brought in several more large pieces of wood for chairs. In minutes the room had been converted into a banquet hall. Platters of roasted meat including, Haleth sourly noted, rabbit, and root vegetables were passed around. There was little conversation around the table. The dwarves were too busy eating to talk.

Haleth sat next to Inglor.

'What took you so long?' she asked quietly in badly accented Quenya.

'Please speak in Sindarin, or better yet, Common,' he said calmly. 'We would not want to be rude to our hosts.'

'Our 'hosts', as you call them, had me locked up as a prisoner,' she said tartly, disregarding his request to change languages.

Inglor took a quick sip of ale.

'I am certain they had their reasons.' he said.

Haleth was too flummoxed to reply.

Once the dinner was over the dwarves, except for Froi, leapt to their feet and began to clear the tables of the detritus of the meal. There was a great deal of activity in the crowded room with dwarves marching back and forth carrying trays piles high with dirty plates, bowls and cutlery. A collision of some sort seemed inevitable, but to Haleth’s amazement none occurred. Someone always swerved out of the way at the last possible instant. It made sense, once she thought of it. Collision avoidance would be a useful skill to employ in a cramped mine tunnel.

Froi leaned back against the wall, stretched his legs before him and took a drink from his tankard of ale which had just been refilled. Inglor accepted more ale with a gracious nod of his head. He kept his legs drawn against the side of the log to keep from tripping people.

Haleth shifted uncomfortably; without any support, her back was growing stiff. She suffered a pang of jealousy at Inglor who could sit or stand in the same position for hours without any apparent discomfort. Bracing her feet, she began to slowly push the log backwards.

The sound of deep voices singing came from the back of the house, punctuated by the clink and bang of dishes being cleaned. While several dwarves disassembled the trestle table, Haleth shoved her perch backwards until its progress was stopped by the wall. She leaned back so that her head and back were supported.

Froi reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a pipe and a smaller bag. He poured a dried herb into the pipe and tamped it down. He took a small, slender stick of wood and struck it against the wall. A small fire came to life on the end of the twig. With the pipe held firmly between his lips, he pushed the small fire into the bowl of the pipe. Smoke rose from the barrel. Froi sat back, puffing on the pipe and regarding the fire.

‘Excuse me, Froi, but what is that?’ asked Inglor.

Froi’s eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘It is a pipe,’ he said. ‘Would you care to smoke?’ He offered Inglor the bag of tobacco.

To Haleth’s surprise, Inglor gave the offer seriously consideration.

‘If I may?’ he asked politely. ‘I do not partake but I know of someone who does.’

Froi glanced quickly at Haleth, who stared, stone faced, into the fire and pretended not to notice.

‘Keep it all,’ said the dwarf. ‘I can always get more.’

The other dwarves were slowly drifting into the room. They arranged themselves on sawn off logs or on the floor and talked quietly among themselves. Most of them lit pipes as soon as they settled. Soon the air was thick with blue smoke.

Haleth’s eyes, nose and throat stung from the smoke. The room was warm and stuffy and she was beginning to nod off.

Inglor noticed her eyes drooping closed.

‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ he said to Froi as he rose to his feet. ‘But my companion grows weary. We must be away. If we can be of any service to you, you have but ask.’

‘Thank-you, Inglor,’ said Froi. ‘We shall stay several days longer although it seems unlikely the Raider have been this far north. Be on the look out for them, nonetheless. They will show you no mercy.’

Haleth bowed deeply to Froi, mumbled a quick thanks and followed Inglor out of the house.

They walked through the rain-washed streets without speaking. Stars twinkled in the gaps between the clouds.

Once again I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

‘I have done as much as I can here,’ said Inglor, laying down the cloth he had been using to polish the ship.

Haleth jabbed herself with the needle. She was perched cross-legged on the workbench, the sail spread like a shroud around her. A drop of blood splattered onto the material.

She jammed her injured finger into her mouth to keep from further staining the sail and sighed inwardly. It was destined that her part in the fashioning of this boat would be flawed. Her injury also gave her an excuse to not speak immediately. The pronouncement had caught her off guard. Her heart sunk to the toes of her boots.

‘What now?’ she mumbled.

‘Now we shall bring it out of doors and put it into the water for the first time,’ said Inglor.

Haleth looked at the ship critically. It was, without question, the most beautiful craft she had ever seen. The keel rose high and proud above the bow and equally high in the stern. It was carved, fore and aft, in the shape of a tightly curled fern of early spring. The gunwales were decorated with alternating motifs of leaves and flowers, each unique and with such painstaking detail that they almost seemed real. The oars had been built to be the perfect size for Inglor’s hands. The blades of all three: the steering oar and the two conventional oars, were carved with the eight pointed, straight-armed star of the house of Finarfin. Even the oarlocks were decorated.

The mast was carved like the trunk of a slender tree. It was a shame that the sail of plain canvas would be so drab in comparison. She thought regretfully of the silver silk. If she had thought that Inglor would have agreed, Haleth would have suggested trying to make the sail again using the silk. But Inglor would be home as soon as he could and while Haleth could not follow, neither would she delay him.

He had polished the wood of the ship until it gleamed to such a high degree that it shone like silver in the moonlight, glimmered like new-fallen snow in the starlight and gleamed like a diamond in the sunlight.

It was achingly beautiful and it broke Haleth’s heart simply to look upon it.

It was also large; far larger than Haleth would have built a ship meant for one person. It could easily accommodate at least two people; in a squeeze possibly three, and all of the provisions necessary for weeks at sea. Even without the mast it occupied most of the space in the tiny workshop.

‘It is too heavy for me to move,’ she said, pulling her finger from her mouth.

‘As it is for me,’ said Inglor with a smile. ‘We shall use rollers to move it.’

‘I’ve almost finished the re-enforcement for the halyard,’ said Haleth, without looking at him directly. ‘I can look for suitable pieces of wood once I’ve finished.’

‘There is no need,’ said Inglor. ‘I have them stacked behind the workshop. I will need your help.’

Haleth nodded mutely. While Inglor was outside retrieving the rollers she finished the last of the stitches and pondered the situation.

It was not that he was leaving that fueled her resentment; she had always known that, sooner or later, Inglor would return to Valinor. She had been hoping for later, but there was nothing she could do to alter his decision. It was probably for the best that he was leaving now. He would not see her grow old and would remember her in her current state; not as a bent and withered old crone.

She disentangled herself from the sail and jumped off the bench. Her back was stiff from hours of sitting hunched over. She placed her hands on her hips and stretched backwards, looking at the ceiling to avoid looking at the ship.

Inglor returned with the rollers. He lifted the bow while Haleth slipped the first roller beneath the keel. It was hard work with just two of them with Inglor pushing from the stern while Haleth held the rollers in place until the boat settled on top of them.

‘What will you use for waterproofing?’ she asked during a break. It was something she had wondered about for a while. The spaces between the strakes were well proofed, but water was very persistent; it would still make its way in. It would be a very long, uncomfortable journey if Inglor had to spend most of his time bailing.

‘There is large barrel of the oil my people use for this. It would be best to do it out of doors as the scent can be strong.’

‘Oh,’ said Haleth, brightening considerably. From her previous experience, she knew it could take months for tar to dry properly. For all his protestations about the sail, Haleth could not imagine Inglor leaving for Aman in a less than perfect ship. Aside from the inconvenience of having to bail water, the elves would look askance at anyone, especially anyone from the ruling House of the Noldor, arriving in a leaky boat.

‘If the weather stays fine, the oil will take about a week to dry properly.’

Haleth reached for the next roller to hide her reaction, silently fighting the urge to throw it at him as hard as she could. Inglor was, as always, oblivious to her mood. In a week, it would no longer be an issue. He pushed the boat while Haleth placed the rollers and mulled over the situation resentfully.

They were making good progress but all of a sudden the ship stopped.

‘What’s the matter? Are the rollers crooked?’ she asked.

She had been expecting a calm, circumspect reply from Inglor and was quite surprised when he remained silent.

‘What happened?’ she asked. She examined the rollers. There were nearly a dozen of them beneath the ship and they all seemed to be in the proper place.

It was only when she stood up that she realized what had occurred.

The double doors had been thrown wide open to allow the ship to pass. The boat was perfectly centred between them.

It was also completely wedged and its widest point was still inside of the workshop.

Somehow, in his hurry to finish the ship, Inglor had misjudged the width of the doors. It was only a fraction too big, but that fraction was enough to trap it inside the workshop.

Haleth could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. She approached the place where the boat was stuck and stared at it in disbelief. She gently shook it, half expecting it to come loose, but it remained firmly stuck.

Suspecting some odd, elvish practical joke, she ran around to the other side, grasped the gunwale and pulled with all her might but the ship remained stuck fast. She glanced at Inglor who was still leaning against the stern of the boat. His face was utterly devoid of expression except for his eyes which burned like twin comets.

In that instant she realized that Inglor of the House of Finarfin, descendant of the royal houses of the Noldor and Teleri, the best shipwrights to even walk upon the face of Arda, had somehow built a ship that would never reach the water.

Laughter welled up inside her. It was the cold, helpless mirth of hysteria. The situation was absurd. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself and hurriedly turned away. She could not look at Inglor. His incandescent fury made the situation all the more funny.

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Haleth, shaking with glee. ‘If we push it back in and turn it on its side a little, we may manage to get it through the doors.’

Inglor did not reply. Instead he turned his furious attention from the ship to Haleth. Her encouraging words died on her lips. If looks could kill, she would have been instantly transported to the Halls of Mandos.

She shrugged her shoulders and examined the situation once again. The ship was wedged against the doorposts, but it wasn’t too wide by very much. If she could widen the doors, the boat would pass through easily.

Without suggesting it, she hopped into the boat and entered the workshop. There was a large hammer on the workbench. With difficulty, she picked it up and stalked towards the door. She took careful aim at the doorpost and swung the hammer with all of her might.

‘No,’ said Inglor as he plucked the tool out of her hands. Haleth, who had been braced against the mighty blow she intended to inflict upon the doorpost, staggered at the hammer’s abrupt removal.

‘But,’ she protested when she had regained her balance.

‘I said no,’ he roared.

Haleth held up her hands in an attitude of surrender. She studied the ship and the doorposts, thinking of possible alternatives.

‘Very well. Shall we try pushing it backwards and tilting it?’

‘No.’ he said shortly.

‘Then what shall we do?’ she asked, exasperated.

Inglor stared at the river. His expression of pure longing put Haleth to shame. Her friend wanted nothing more than to go home. For weeks she had secretly wished for something to slow his progress. Now that she saw how it affected him, she would do anything to put things to rights.

‘We build again,’ Inglor shrugged. ‘Only this time in the large works.’

Haleth nodded in agreement. There was no point in arguing.

‘At least we can use the sail,’ she said, secretly hoping the new ship would be less elaborate than the original. Her sail would look more at home on a simple, unadorned craft.

Inglor did not reply. He began to collect the rollers, crawling through the ship on the way into the workshop, piled them near the back of the boat.

Haleth examined the high prow, the lovingly planed wood and the rich, complex carvings.

‘Still, it is a pretty ship,’ she said.

‘Haleth?’ said Inglor as he dropped a roller over the side.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘Shut up.’

Once again I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

Weeks had passed since the debacle with the first ship.

Haleth, three unfortunate rabbits hanging over her shoulder, crossed one of the bridges linking the two halves of Mithlond and considered the current situation.

The second ship was almost as lovely as the first. The wood gleamed nearly as brightly as the original’s had. The carvings were almost as intricate. Haleth privately believed that it would have been every bit as beautiful and more except that the summer was drawing to its close. If he delayed his departure much longer, Inglor would risk facing the storms of the autumn sea. Even though she rejoiced with each extra day she could spend with him, Haleth did not want him to take that risk.

They had built the new ship in the large, echoing workshop that jutted over the river. The urgency of their errand had made the surroundings less oppressive. Inglor, as before, had worked day and night, seemingly without rest.

Only after the construction of the second ship was well underway had Inglor asked for help with the original. Using rollers, they had pushed it back into the small workshop. Then Inglor had closed and locked the double doors forever.

The second ship was now completed. Inglor had sailed it several times, claiming he intended to familiarize himself with the way it moved. A tiny morsel of Haleth secretly hoped he was simply delaying his journey although the larger, sensible part of her knew he was simply waiting until sufficient provisions had been gathered.

Inglor had spent the past few days gathering old casks and filling them with sweet water and stowing them in the ship while Haleth hunted and gathered as much food as she could.

She paused at the highest point of the bridge and looked south, past the mouth of the River Lhûn, into the haze over the waters of the Gulf. A dark spot marred the horizon. It served as a reminder of the fading of Middle-earth.

Her gaze swept over the deserted city. The world that she had known was gone just as surely as the Elves were gone from Mithlond. There were reminders, of course. In the south the new King was restoring the glory of Gondor. The time of Men had come in earnest. The long twilight of the Elves was over; one look at the deserted city confirmed that. The only reminders of their existence would be ruins, like these, and the old stories. In time, even these would fade.

Haleth sighed and looked back to the sea, acutely feeling all of the decades of her life. She frowned. The dark spot on the horizon had grown larger.

Leaning over the parapet, she squinted at it. The spot was indeed larger. And it was in the shape of a ship with black sails. The dwarf’s warnings, which she had dismissed until that very minute, returned to ring in her ears.

‘Raiders!’ she whispered aghast.

She had dealt with pirates in the past. Her side ached with the memory of her last encounter with them. They would burn the ship if they could. There would be no mercy if they laid hands upon her.

Her heart froze in her chest. It would be infinitely worse if they caught Inglor.

She had to reach Inglor before they reached the mouth of the river and saw Inglor’s white ship. Maybe they could lift it back into the workshop and lock the doors behind them. With luck, the Raiders wouldn’t be interested in the wooden ship works.

With the rabbits bouncing on her shoulder, Haleth pelted towards the docks. The black speck on the horizon grew steadily larger. She dared not call out. She did not know where Inglor was. Even though his ears were very keen, he might be inside one of the buildings and would not hear her. But sound carried so well over water that someone else, someone on that black ship, might.

Driven by evil visions of what the Corsairs would do with an elf, she ran harder than she had in years. Haleth was at an age where she preferred to out-think her opponents rather than outrun or out fight them. But there was a ship to race and no time to think. She reached the bottom of the bridge and skidded around a corner, painfully twisted an ankle and almost lost her balance. The rabbits fell to the ground and were left behind, forgotten.

She ran with a shuffling gait along a street that was parallel to the riverside rather than on the paved road that ran along the water’s edge. There was less chance of finding Inglor here, but there was less chance of being seen by the Corsairs as well. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore the pain in her ankle and run faster. At last she reached the side street that led to the dock where the ship was moored.

She stopped at the corner of the last house. The ship was there, bobbing gracefully in the river’s current. The mast, which could be raised and lowered, was lying on the dock. Boxes and casks of supplies were stacked neatly on the pier.

Inglor, or course, was nowhere in sight.

Cursing under her breath, Haleth peered around the corner towards the mouth of the river. The main workshop blocked her view but it was too easy to envision the black ship gliding upstream, propelled by the oarsmen.

She would have to try to hide the ship herself, but before she could take a step someone grabbed her arm. She whirled around, loosing the knife she wore on her forearm as she moved, and found herself holding the point of her blade against Inglor’s neck.

Swallowing hard, she deliberately lowered the knife. ‘Inglor, there’s a problem,’ she said.

‘There is a black ship in the gulf,’ he said. ‘The Corsairs come to Mithlond.’

‘Is there time to get the ship above the city and far enough upstream to hide it before they enter the river?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Inglor. ‘Even if there were two sets of oars to work against the current and the tide, we could not hope to reach the first bend in the river fast enough.

‘Very well. This is what we are going to do,’ said Haleth. It was amazing how clearly she could think. She ran to the pier and began tossing casks, boxes and anything that came to hand into the ship. Inglor joined her.

‘This is what we’ll do,’ she repeated as she dropped a box into the ship. It landed on its side and slammed onto its top. ‘You get in the boat. I’ll run down as close to the mouth of the river as I can and start a fire. That ought to get their attention.’

‘It should,’ Inglor agreed as he shoved a cask over the edge of the dock. ‘But what will that accomplish?’

‘Not enough,’ said Haleth. She paused to think as Inglor continued the haphazard loading of the cargo. ‘I’ll fire some arrows at them and let them see me,’ she said. ‘That ought to annoy them enough to give chase. Once their boat has anchored and most of the crew is on land, set sail. Don’t raise your sail until you’re certain they’re all on land. Good-bye, Inglor,’ she said with a sad smile. It was a terrible way to bid farewell to her best friend, but circumstances would not allow for anything better.

‘And how shall you escape the Corsairs?’ he asked.

‘I’ll run. There are plenty of places to hide. I know the city far better than them. I’ll be fine.’

Once again I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

Haleth was never certain how she got onto the ship. One instant she was standing on the dock, assuring Inglor she would be well. The next she was sprawled across boxes and casks at the bottom of the ship.

Before she could protest, Inglor was upon her, covering her mouth with his hand. ‘Hush,’ he whispered urgently. ‘If you begin to shout they will surely hear you!’ He cut the mooring lines while she struggled to pull herself upright. Inglor grabbed the oars and began to row.

Haleth, who had just regained her balance, sat down hard when the boat jerked forward. With a grunt of discomfort she crawled to the back of the boat, rubbing her abused backside. She took the steering oar and looked questioningly at Inglor who shook his head mutely.

They sat together, straining their ears for any sound of the Corsairs, but the only noise was the sloshing of the river against the ship and the dock.

‘Inglor, this is ridiculous,’ Haleth whispered. ‘A small distraction is better than no distraction at all. What are we going to do? Hope none of the Corsairs look to their left?’

‘We shall hide beneath the dock,’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses? You just told me we can’t outrun them!’ she whispered.

‘What I said was that we cannot reach the first bend in the river without being seen.’ Inglor’s voice rang in her mind.

Haleth clamped her hand against her forehead and shuddered violently. ‘I thought I asked you not to do that!’ she whispered viciously.

‘Under the circumstances there is little choice. Listen!’

Haleth strained her hears. Her breath caught in her throat. Was that the distant splash of the Corsair’s oars? The faint noise grew louder, the rhythmic splashing now accompanied by the shouts of hoarse voices. The Corsairs had broken into song, their voices harsh and filled with cruel laughter.

Haleth did some quick mental calculations. Judging by the number of voices, there were far more of them than she had originally thought. They could easily overwhelm the crew of the tiny elven ship. She glanced at Inglor who appeared completely unconcerned, and directed her thoughts at her companion, moving her lips in case they did not reach him.

‘Inglor, this is madness. There are too many of them. Let me on shore and I’ll cause a distraction.’

Inglor’s response was to smile and maneuver the ship further from the dock.

‘Inglor! You’re going to get us both killed!’ Haleth balled her hands into fists. She half rose, intending to jump over the side and swim for the shore but at that instant the bow of the Corsair ship appeared from around the edge of the dock.

From the perspective in the small elven ship, the Corsair vessel was enormous. There was a huge, black ram on the prow. It glided by as Haleth quickly sat down.

The rest of the ship hove into view. A tall mast towered over the decks, the black sails tightly furled and there were at least fifteen oars on the side visible to Haleth. The decks were swarming with pirates.

Their tiny ship leapt forward, propelled by Inglor working the oars. The movement caught the attention of the men on the pirate ship. Haleth could see one point and shout. Soon, it seemed, they were all jeering and leaning on the side of the black ship.

‘Inglor!’ croaked Haleth. She fervently wished there was another set of oars. It wouldn’t change the ultimate outcome of the confrontation, but it would have made her feel better to have something to do.

‘I see them,’ said Inglor calmly. With expert skill, he angled their ship into the current. It shot past the Corsair’s ship before the surprised pirates could fire their arrows.

Haleth spun around to watch.

There was shouting and confusion on the black ship. Some pirates ran to get their weapons while others continued to shake their fists and yell obscenities. Meanwhile, the elven ship increased the distance between them. The crack of a whip rang through the air. Someone was trying to restore order to the Corsair ship. There was shouting and cursing and the harsh clash of steel.

Inglor’s back was bent with effort. The oars cut easily through the water of the River Lhûn as the current propelled them forward. It was almost as though the river itself was helping them. Haleth smiled encouragingly at him. Maybe they would manage to live a few moments longer after all.

When she turned around, the Corsair ship was across the current, the black oars moving in unison to bring the ship around. She then glanced down stream over Inglor’s shoulder. The mouth of the river was growing closer and closer. The buildings and docks of Mithlond had been left behind. The banks of the river were covered in sedge grass.

‘That was amazing, Inglor, but what are we going to do when they get the ship turned around?’ she asked.

‘We shall keep sailing,’ said Inglor calmly.

‘Not for long!’ snapped Haleth. ‘They are bigger than us. They have more sails and more oars. Once we reach open water they will catch us in no time. We might have stood a chance if there’d been something on shore to distract them, but, no.’

‘The opportunity is past. There is no need to dwell upon it,’ he replied as he dipped the oars into the water yet again. He was rowing at a terrific rate. Haleth was not certain how he could still speak while putting in such an effort.

‘No need?’ spluttered Haleth in disbelief. How could anyone be so calm in such a dire situation unless he was stark, raving mad?

Inglor smiled and nodded, obviously happy that they had reached an agreement on the matter.

Haleth glanced over her shoulder. The Corsair ship had completed turning around. It was heading downstream, straight towards them, at a speed that would soon overtake them. ‘At least my way only one of use would have died,’ said Haleth viciously.

‘Neither of us shall die today.’ Inglor spoke with such conviction that Haleth almost believed him.

She looked back at the black ship bearing down on them. It grew larger and larger by the minute, towering over the tiny, white ship. She could make out the individual faces of those standing on the bow. The black vessel was moving with such speed that Haleth began to doubt they would even reach the river’s mouth before it caught them.

‘They’re getting closer, Inglor,’ she said needlessly.

‘I know,’ he said in the same, maddeningly calm voice he always used.

The elven ship lurched forward with a sudden burst of speed.

‘What was that?’ asked Haleth. She peered over the edge, half expecting to see Ossë himself beneath the ship, pushing it along. There was nothing beneath the ship but the water. The bottom of the river was clearly visible.

‘The tide is going out,’ replied Inglor, rowing with the same vigour he had shown since the beginning of the deadly race.

‘Oh,’ said Haleth. It hardly seemed an advantage when the Corsair ship would benefit from it as well.

The banks fell away as they reached the mouth of the river.

Unable to look away, Haleth watched the black ship draw closer and closer. She could make out the individual faces of those on the ship. There were leering, grinning men with scarred features. One noticed Haleth’s attention and smiled, revealing a set of teeth filed to points. She stared at him impassively as he licked his lips and flicked his tongue at her.

The steady beat of a drum rolled across the water. The oars dipped into the river in time with the drum. A distant, disconnected part of Haleth admired their seafaring skills. ‘Inglor,’ she said as the black ship bore down on them, ‘It has been a great pleasure to have known you.’

No sooner had she spoken than there was a grinding, tearing noise and the black ship ground to a halt.

The Corsairs, so confident of victory an instant before, were thrown into complete confusion. Many, including those who had climbed the mast to get a better view of the spectacle, were caught off balance and thrown to the deck. Others landed in the water. As Haleth watched, her jaw slack, the black ship listed heavily to the right.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘They hit bottom,’ Inglor explained helpfully.

‘Yes, I can see that. How did they hit bottom?’ she demanded.

She regretted the question as soon as the words had been spoken. Inglor would undoubtedly offer some perfectly obvious, perfectly unilluminating response and she would have to fight the temptation to push him over the side.

‘The mouth of the River Lhûn is prone to silt deposits,’ he said as he shipped the oars. ‘Could you please help me with the sail?’ he asked.

As she had expected, Haleth fought the urge to push him over the side as they worked to raise the sail.

‘Círdan’s people frequently dredged the river mouth to keep a large channel open. With them gone, the channel has begun to fill. Our ship has a small enough draught that we simply sailed over it. The Corsair’s ship, however…’ he shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

‘How did you know?’ asked Haleth.

‘I have sailed the ship to the mouth of the river and back many times since we built it,’ he said as he hauled on the ropes to raise the sail of plain canvas.

‘Of course you knew when the tide would change,’ said Haleth. ‘And it was easy to tell the Corsair ship drew too much water to cross that part of the river mouth safely.’

‘According to the dwarves, the Corsairs had never been this far north. They would be unfamiliar with the waters,’ said Inglor.

‘And in too much of a hurry to pay attention,’ said Haleth. ‘Still, it was a near thing, especially the timing,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at the black ship. It was listing hard to starboard. Corsairs swarmed over it like angry ants whose hill had just been kicked over. ‘If the tide had not been going out…’

‘We would have managed some other way,’ said Inglor. ‘Help me with the ropes?’

Haleth quickly bent down and fastened the ropes.

‘You pushed me off the dock,’ she said accusingly.

‘Yes,’ he said. The shadow of a frown crossed his face. ‘I apologize for my actions but there was no time for a lengthy discussion.’

‘You could have explained,’ said Haleth.

‘There was no time,’ he offered weakly.

Haleth grunted. She had her apology. There was nothing to be gained by pushing the discussion any further. ‘They would have killed us if they had caught us,’ she said, glancing once more at the stranded Corsair ship. They had drifted further away from it, their ship carried by the receding tide and the remnants of the river current.

‘Yet they did not catch us,’ said Inglor as he lowered the steering oar into the water and seated himself at the stern of the boat. ‘As I said, neither of us will die today.’

As always I must thank my patient beta readers, Aearwen and Ruger and all of the wonder writers on the Garden of Ithilien. Any remaining mistakes are my responsibility.

‘Look out!’ The silent warning was so unexpected that Haleth, instead of doing the sensible thing and dropping to the bottom of the boat, looked up to see the source of the danger.

Something whizzed over Inglor’s head and embedded itself in the mast, brushing her arm on the way by. Haleth, grasping her injured arm, recoiled in shock.

‘Haleth? Are you well?’ asked Inglor, jumping out of his seat and violently rocking the boat.

She examined her injury. The arrow, which was still quivering in the mast, had ripped open her sleeve. A thin, red gash ran across her upper arm. ‘Yes, Inglor, it only scratched me,’ said Haleth. ‘I told you they were trying to kill us,’ she added.

‘I never disagreed with you on that point,’ he said. Bracing his feet, he pulled the arrow out of the mast and threw it over the side. ‘We are nearly out of their range, but it would be best if we put more distance between us.’

With Inglor steering the ship and Haleth working the sail, they quickly made their way to the west.

After some initial miscommunications, they worked quite well as a team. Inglor would suggest to Haleth that she adjust the sail to best catch the wind. It was difficult, particularly at first as the wind was blowing directly from the west. They had to tack to make the best use of it, but this required good communication between them.

Unsurprisingly, they had different ideas of how this could best be accomplished. It led to disagreements; at least, it did after the black ship was lost on the horizon behind them. The situation was not made any better by Inglor’s sudden decision to speak Quenya instead of Sindarin. He changed languages while in the middle of directing Haleth of how to trim the sail.

She stared at him blankly.

‘You understand Quenya,’ he said softly.

‘I do, but not well.’ Haleth answered in Sindarin. ‘Now probably isn’t the best time for a language lesson.’  What was Inglor playing at now, insisting on speaking a language that she would never use again? She bit her lip to keep from shouting at him and tried to reason with herself.  It had been obvious for some time that Inglor missed his home very badly. He was understandably excited to return to the Undying Lands and leave everything of Middle-earth behind, including the languages and those who spoke them.  Even so, this was not a practical time to be nostalgic. She glared at the horizon as though a dozen Corsair ships were bearing down on them.

‘They are far behind us,’ said Inglor. Remarkably he had understood her unspoken allusion; or a least that part of it. To make up for that burst of comprehension, he continued speaking in Quenya.

Haleth glared at him. He returned her gaze with a calm, slightly bewildered expression. She sighed loudly. There was no arguing with Inglor’s whims and she hardly wanted to shout at him and spoil their last hours together. He was undoubtedly planning to set her on land somewhere in the vicinity of the dwarf settlements in the Ered Luin.

Her temper was not improved by the ache in her arm; the scratch made by the Corsair arrow stung. There was nothing to be gained by complaining about that either; so she did her best to follow his instructions, even though half the time she had to guess what it was that he wanted.

Through practice, she had things down more or less pat by the time the sun began to set.

When the wind died down, leaving her with nothing to do so she began to organize the food and water they had loaded in such a hurry on the dock at Mithlond. ‘You seem to have an awful lot of supplies,’ she asked as she righted a wooden chest. ‘How long will it take you to reach the Blessed Realm?’

‘Long enough,’ said Inglor.

Haleth favoured him with a long, penetrating look. She wondered if he was being deliberately evasive. There was no reason for it. It was not as though she could follow him.

If her intense scrutiny bothered him, he gave no sign of it. He leaned against the stern, one hand resting on the steering oar, the other draped over the gunwale. He seemed to glow in the rosy light of the setting sun.

Haleth’s skepticism transformed to regret; within a few days they would bid their final farewells and she would never, ever see him again. A lump rose in her throat. She scratched her arm to distract herself.

‘Would you care for some water?’ she asked hoarsely in badly accented Quenya.

‘Yes, please,’ he answered, smiling warmly at the way she massacred his mother-tongue.

Haleth examined the crates lining the bottom of the boat.

‘I don’t suppose you could tell me where the mugs might be?’ she asked.

Several hours later Haleth was lying at the bottom of the boat, staring up at the sky. At Inglor’s insistence, the sail had been furled for the night. Haleth wondered why he had suggested it. Even though she would be sleeping, the sail was close enough for him to adjust it from his current position. He would have to learn how to use both the sail and the steering oar simultaneously sooner or later.

She laughed silently at herself. After what he had done earlier that day, she had no reason to doubt his sailing skills.

The summer stars burned brightly above them. The air was warm and the ship rocked gently on the waves. It was soothing to lie at the bottom of the boat and watch the sky. She should have been easily lulled to sleep, but her mind kept dwelling upon the upcoming parting from Inglor. It was worse actually being in the ship with him because, although her rational mind knew she could never dare to approach Valinor, in her heart she wanted nothing more than to travel with him, even if it meant her death. She shifted restlessly and wished she had never set foot in the ship.

‘Are you not comfortable?’ Inglor asked.

‘I’m fine, Inglor,’ she lied. ‘My arm is a little itchy.’

Inglor began to sing. With images of white shores and tall, green hills filling her mind, Haleth passed in the world of dreams.

Inglor adjusted the steering oar.  It was exhilarating to be on his way home to his family and friends and the land he knew so well. Middle-earth had its charms, but his people’s time there had passed.  For better or worse, it belonged to the mortals now.

How he longed for home! He almost thought he could catch the scent of the flowers of far-away Valinor on the Western wind.  

Breathing a sigh of contentment, he watched his companion sleep. The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon. It cast a ruddy glow over the world but even in the rosy light Haleth’s face seemed pale.

He was worried for her. Ever since the palantir had gone into the depths, Haleth’s behavior had changed. When he thought about it, her behavior had changed before then; after the experience in Dale when she had taken poison meant for him. It was one thing to intellectually know she would one day pass from the Circles of the World. It was entirely another to watch it happen and know it had been his fault.

Her mood had been particularly dour since he had announced his decision to sail for the West. He had finally suggested that she make the sail simply to distract her.

Haleth stirred in her sleep, drawing his attention back to the present. She had thrown off her cloak during the night and now lay curled on her side, wedged between the casks and the boxes.

She was usually awake by now, but she had had trouble sleeping the night before and the day had been strenuous. He would let her rest.

Inglor shipped the steering oar. Taking care not to jostle Haleth, he raised the sail, trimmed it to best catch the wind, then seated himself in the stern and lowered the steering oar back into the water.

It would take the Corsairs several weeks to repair the damage to their boat, but there was no guarantee that the ship they had encountered at Mithlond was the only one in the gulf; the more miles between them, the better. He would break his fast with Haleth when she awakened.

The sun rose higher and the day grew warmer but Haleth showed no signs of awakening.

Inglor considered rousing her, but he strongly suspected she would not appreciate it. It could be a tricky thing, irritating Haleth in the confined space of the ship. There was nowhere to run.

Perhaps there was something he could use to awaken her from a distance? He could poke her with one of the oars, but she might grab the oar and throw it over the side. It would be very time consuming to have to retrieve it; unless, of course, she simply threw him in after it, which was a real possibility.

The sun was growing quite warm. Mortals, he knew, could suffer from lack of water on hot days. She should awaken at least long enough to drink.

‘Haleth,’ he said, gently shaking her by the shoulder.

Haleth groaned softly and opened her eyes. She blinked at him as though she did not recognize him. Then she looked at her surroundings as though she could not understand how she had gotten there.

‘Inglor?’ she asked, peering at him through eyes that were open the merest slits.

‘Yes?’ he asked politely.

‘I…guess I slept late,’ she said.

It was a strange thing he had noted about Haleth. On the rare occasions that she slept past dawn she behaved as though she had had less rest rather than more. It was only one of many strange facets of human behavior, but it never ceased to surprise him.

‘Would you care for some food?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not hungry,’ said Haleth. Her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘I would appreciate some water, though.’

He obligingly moved further up the boat to retrieve the water cask.

As he filled two mugs with water, Haleth turned away from him. She seemed to be examining something. He heard her low gasp and wondered what it meant. He could ask, but there seemed little point. Haleth loathed showing any sort of weakness. While she would not directly lie, she would not tell the entire truth, either. If it were important, sooner or later he would learn of it.

‘Here is your water,’ he said, handing the mug to her. She looked somewhat pale.

Haleth smiled wanly and raised the cup to her lips.

He took up his position in the stern and they sipped their water in silence.

‘How far do you think we have come?’ she asked as she peered at the horizon.

‘Fifteen, perhaps twenty leagues,’ he replied. ‘Half way to Belegaer.’

Haleth’s face fell. ‘So quickly,’ she gasped. Inglor was wondering about her horrified reaction when she suddenly shrugged. ‘That, perhaps, is just as well.’

He was wondering if it would be worthwhile to ask her what she meant when she drained her mug and looked at him expectantly.

‘Shall we make the most of the fair wind?’ she asked.

They sailed through the rest of the day without incident, making good time in spite of the contrary wind.

The one odd thing that made Inglor wonder was Haleth's lack of appetite. Each time he asked if she was hungry she would shake her head and ask for water instead.

All went well until the late afternoon.

‘Tack the sail to the left, please,’ he told her, speaking in Quenya.

Haleth did not move.

At first he thought she did not understand him, but that could not be; he had been speaking Quenya to her for most of the afternoon. She had either answered in Sindarin or had said nothing at all, but she had followed his requests perfectly, so she must have understood.

He was about to repeat the instruction when Haleth abruptly bent double, her hand clutching the arm that had been injured by the Corsair’s arrow. ‘Haleth?’ he asked. ‘Did you drop something?’

She shook her head mutely. Her breathing was ominously loud.

‘Haleth? Haleth!’

Releasing the steering oar he sped to the side of his stricken friend. She regarded him through eyes glazed with pain. Her face was covered in a sheen of fine perspiration.

‘Oh, Inglor, I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

‘For what reason are you sorry?’ he asked. As always, her choice of words puzzled him. She had done many things worthy of an apology and never requested one. Yet now she had done nothing and she was begging his forgiveness?

‘The arrow,’ she said.

‘If it hurts you should have told me earlier,’ he said. ‘I can sail the ship alone.’

‘I know you can,’ panted Haleth. ‘But I think the arrow was poisoned.’

Poison. The word struck fear into the very core of his being. ‘Not again,’ he thought ‘Not now!’

‘Let me see,’ he said, gently pulling her hand off the injured arm.

The skin was barely broken, the injury little more than a scratch, but the area surrounding it was red and swollen. Red and black lines radiated from the livid centre.

With an effort he bit back the rising panic. ‘What should I do?’ he asked.

She shook her head, plainly not understanding the question.

‘When we first met, you nearly drowned. You told me of lung fever, what to expect and how to tend to you. What should I do?’

‘I…I don’t know.’

‘There must be an antidote; an herb you can eat or a…a….’ he groped for the unfamiliar word. There was simply nothing in any of the elvish languages that would describe it. ‘Poultice,’ he finally said, using Westron. ‘There must be one. Tell me how to make it.’

‘Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew?’ snapped Haleth. The flash of temper cheered Inglor immensely. Her shoulders slumped. ‘I have no idea what poison they used, let alone how to cure it,’ she mumbled.

‘But surely there is someone,’ he insisted.

‘Master Elrond, perhaps, but he is across the Sundering Seas,’ said Haleth. She was speaking through gritted teeth. Her complexion was taking on an alarmingly waxy cast. ‘Or the King in Gondor, but he is too far away. He might as well be across the sea.’

She pitched forwards and would have landed heavily on the bottom of the ship if Inglor had not caught her. He pulled her upright. Her eyelids flickered rapidly. He placed his hand on her throat to measure her pulse. Her heart beat strongly but far too rapidly.

Panic threatened to engulf him. He pushed it away. Haleth was speaking, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Bury me at sea.’

‘I shall not bury you because you shall not die!’ he cried, hugging her close to him.

Haleth appeared to not have heard him. ‘…just as well,’ she mumbled. ‘I couldn’t have borne to live without you.’

She lay still. Inglor gently laid her on the bottom of the ship. He folded her cloak and placed it beneath her head in a probably futile attempt to make her comfortable.

‘Inglor?’ she rasped. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hush. You have nothing to be sorry for.’

‘But I do,’ she grasped his hand and pulled herself up. The effort this cost her was painful to watch.

‘I never told you this before because I was afraid. Afraid you would laugh, or worse, that you'd pity me.’ She drew a deep breath and looked directly into his eyes. ‘I love you Inglor. Good-bye.’ Her body went limp, her strength spent on the confession.

‘I know,’ he whispered shocked. How could she not have realized?

The ghost of a smile might have crossed her face. The expression was so subtle he could not be certain.

‘Haleth, do not will yourself to death!’

There was no reaction. He grasped her wrist. Her pulse was still strong but her skin was burning.

Turning his face to the west, he trimmed the sail and grimly sailed onwards.

This is a work of fanfiction.  There is no intent to make any money from it. 

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and the writers at the Garden of Ithilien for helping me to beat this into shape. 

She awakened to a world of white, unable to recall how she had gotten here or when she had arrived.  Upon further consideration, she could recall if there had ever been anything other than white.

She was curiously detached from her body, and it would not have surprised her to see it somewhere below her, if she could ascribe a direction to down.  She knew she should be afraid or at least curious, but she seemed as incapable of emotion as she was of feeling her body.  She was adrift, alone and lacking identity, in a sea of white. 

Something impinged on her awareness.  She tried to understand what it was.  Part of her disjointed memory told her it was music: someone nearby was singing.  But as hard as she struggled, she could not make out any words, only that the melody was infinitely sad.

It hardly seemed to matter.

The singing grew louder.  She had the impression of someone standing above her.  There were gentle hands, a cup raised to her lips, a bitter draught; then the world slowly faded from white to grey and then to darkness once more.

When she next become aware, the world was misty grey.  This was more familiar, more comforting than the white.  She could almost make out shapes in the fog, but the individual pieces were stubbornly elusive. Each time a shape seemed about to solidify the edges would blend together with the shadows. A feeling of breathless anticipation settled over her, as though she was about to embark upon a perilous journey. Even in her half-conscious state she knew this was odd and she tried to understand why she would feel this way. Inevitably, the effort proved too great and she drifted away again.

The periods of awareness slowly grew longer until the day she saw a face hovering above her.  It was a wise and gentle face, filled with concern and framed in dark hair.  She had the nagging feeling of recognition, but there were nothing on which to hang a name. 

It was a kind face, though; and she instinctively knew that whoever he was, she could trust him.

A cup was raised to her lips. 

‘Drink.’

The draught was as bitter as wormwood, and the world receded once more.

It was dark when she next awakened, and she lay in the comforting blackness and contemplated the face.   

She had never seen the actual person before, yet she felt she knew him.  An image sprang from the back of her mind of an ancient, leather-bound book with delicate, yellowing pages,on a podium in a dim room that smelled of musty paper.  She was balanced before it on a stool; her hands, enclosed in soft, white gloves, trembled as she turned the crackling pages.  The echo of fear mixed with excitement coursed through her.  The book was not only ancient but forbidden; and that, not the information between its covers, was what had drawn her to it.   There would not be much time for her to skim the parchments without being caught, and she flipped to the first page.  There was a sketch there, a line drawing of a solemn, dark-haired man.  It was the face of the man who was tending her. There was a name inscribed at the bottom of the page. 

Tar-Minyatur.

A door opened behind her and someone shouted in anger.

She awoke to find it daylight once more and the details of her surroundings were plainer. She was lying in a soft bed.  Something she had meant to do before she had come here pricked at her mind - something urgent.  But she couldn't remember what it was, and strongly suspected it was no longer important. 

Quiet voices murmurred outside of the place where she was being kept.  She wondered who the other person was for she had only ever seen the dark haired man, The identity of the second person did not matter, but the dark haired man certainly did.  It was important that she should greet him with the proper respect.

With a great effort, she hauled herself upright and struggled to get out of bed.  Her legs were weak, almost insubstantial, but if she ordered them to, they would hold her for long enough.

He entered the room and examined her carefully; it was obvious he had not expected her to be upright.

She bowed deeply. ‘Your Majesty, you do me great honour,’ she said.  The greeting was not as she had imagined it.  Her voice was muted and the words ran together in an incomprehensible mess.  Then her knees gave out and she sank to the floor.  The last thing she remembered was the man’s sad, worried expression as he bent over her.

The next time he came to visit, she did not get up. 

He sat upon her bed, picked up her hand and asked, ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Of course,’ she replied.  ‘You are Tar-Minyatur, the first and best King of Númenor and the founder of my family.’

The ghost of a smile crossed Tar-Minyatur’s face. 

‘If you know who I am, do you know who you are?’

She stared at him in incomprehension. 

‘Your name, child.  Can you tell me your name?’

She lay back and searched the empty depths of her memory.  It was a pathetically short search.  ‘No,’ she said.  ‘I do not.  But I know you.’

Again the tiny smile crossed his face.  ‘What do you remember?’ he asked.

‘I was in a library,’ she said quickly.

‘Is that all?’ he asked when several minutes passed and she said nothing else.

‘I was there, then I was here, with you.  And I know you,’ she insisted.

‘How do you know me?’

‘From the book,’ she said.

‘The book?’ he asked.

‘The book in the library,’ she said.  ‘Your picture was in it and your name beneath your image.’

‘Is there anything else?’ he insisted.

‘I…the book was forbidden to me,’ she admitted, averting her eyes from his steady gaze.

‘Forbidden?’ he asked. 

She risked a quick glance at him.  He did not seem angry, only puzzled.  He also expected an answer. ‘It was a very old and important book and I was not to touch it lest the pages crumbled.  Yet I was careful.  I even wore the gloves!’ she said.

He examined her for a very long time.  She twisted the plain band of silver that rested upon her finger while nervously awaiting a scolding.

‘It was good that you wore the gloves,’ he finally said.  ‘Do you remember anything else in the book?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘It is a start,’ said Tar-Minyatur.

She wondered about the cryptic remark, but he seemed disinclined to say any more. 

‘Do you know my name?’ she asked.

‘Not your true name, no,’ he replied.

He had phrased his answer strangely, but she was disinclined to wonder about his choice of words. If her name was still important, she somehow knew her ignorance would bother her.  But it was no longer important.  She was as certain of this as she was that Tar-Minyatur was beside her.

‘Are you in pain?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘You sound doubtful,’ he said.

‘Not doubtful, no.  I do not understand.’

‘You do not understand pain?’

She laughed and leaned back against the pillows. ‘I do not understand how the dead can be expected to feel pain.’

Tar-Minyatur examined her gravely.  ‘You do not feel pain yet you know what pain is?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, no longer sure of herself.  The conversation was very confusing. 

‘Sleep,’ he said.  ‘I shall visit tomorrow.’

She obediently closed her eyes and drifted into oblivion.

I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and all of the writers at the Garden of Ithilien who really helped to make this story shine.

‘Is there anything outside of this room?’ she asked one day. 

Tar Minyatur glanced at the light streaming through the gauzy curtains. ‘There is,’ he said.

‘May I see it?’ she asked. 

Tar Minyatur sighed quietly. ‘In time,’ he said.

‘When I remember my name?’ she asked.  He did not reply. ‘That is why I am kept here, is it not?  Apart from the others.  I cannot leave until I speak to Mandos and Mandos cannot speak to me until I remember my name.’ 

Tar Minyatur studied her for a long time without speaking.  ‘Lord Námo would know your name whether you remembered it or not,’ he finally said.

‘Oh,’ she replied, abashed.  Of course the Vala would know her name.  She was being foolish.  Yet it had all made sense when she had first thought of it.  ‘May I ask him?’ she said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tar-Minyatur.

‘May I ask him my name?’ she repeated. 

‘Not yet,’ he replied.

‘Oh,’ she said, crestfallen. ‘When can I ask him?’

‘I imagine you can ask him when he summons you,’ he said.

She frowned.  ‘Why hasn’t he summoned me?’ she asked.

Tar Minyatur looked at her without comprehension. The expression was eerily familiar.

‘None can know the Valar’s reasons,’ said Tar Minyatur.  ‘But I suspect you will be summoned soon.’

‘Good!’ she said.  ‘Then I can ask my name.’

‘Until then, you must sleep,’ said Tar Minyatur.

She obediently closed her eyes.  But this time sleep refused to come.  She waited, feigning slumber, until he stood up.  She waited a while longer, just to be certain he was gone, before opening her eyes to slits.

She was alone in the room.  Her ancestor was very kind and patient, but he wasn’t very forthcoming. It was time to learn what she could for herself.

Gathering her strength, she dragged herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.  It was hard work, but she was determined to practice a little every day when she was awake and alone.  She knew without asking that Tar Minyatur would not approve. 

Fighting vertigo, she slowly forced herself to stand.  Her legs felt like water and it was difficult to walk.  She lurched around, holding the edge of the bed for several minutes before giving in to exhaustion and collapsing. 

Tomorrow, she vowed, she would walk all the way to the door and back.

It took much longer than one day for her to finally walk from the door back to the bed.  For the longest time, the least bit of movement made her dizzy and unspeakably tired; too tired to worry over her lack of a name.

At last, one very fine evening she decided to walk outside her room.  She tested the door, half wondering if it would be locked.  Interestingly enough, the prospect of a locked door did not bother her, and she wondered if this was a clue to her identity or simply the logical extension of not caring about much of anything.

It was ridiculous to wonder.  She had spent many nights debating the reason for her apathy with nothing to show for it except for the rather lame excuse that the dead were incapable of worry.

It proved a moot point for the door was not locked. 

She peered one way, then the other down the hallway.  Only when she had assured herself that the corridor was quite empty did she leave the sanctuary of her room.    Her bare feet padded on cool marble floors.  She made her way, supporting herself on the walls, reached the end of the hallway and slowly peered around the corner.  To the left there was another corridor with gauzy curtains fluttering in the breeze down the length of the hall.  To the right there was a door.

She tiptoed to the first window, pulled back the curtain and looked into a garden.  From where she stood she could see bushes and flowers, part of a pathway and something that might have been a bench; but it was impossible to see more because of the trees blocking her view. 

The sweet scent of the night flowers filled the air.  The unmistakable gurgle of water came from an invisible stream. A gentle breeze caressed her face. 

Somewhere in the distance a door closed, and she returned to her senses.  She should return to her room before she was caught. She shuffled around the corner and was confronted by a hallway full of doors.  A wave of panic engulfed her.  Which door led to her room? 

By the time she collapsed on her own bed she was utterly exhausted.  She lay there, drenched in sweat, and stared at the wooden ceiling beams, a dim sense of satisfaction in her heart.  It seemed ridiculous to take pride in walking down a hallway without being seen.  She examined her emotions with cool detachment as she forced herself to crawl beneath the blanket.  It seemed she was capable of caring after all, at least a little bit.

She drifted off to sleep in spite of a dull, nagging ache in her left arm.

It was several days before she left her room again.  She had wanted to build up her strength before attempting her next campaign, which was to explore the garden.

Tar Minyatur visited several times during that period.  He was as calm and polite but singularly unhelpful about her identity which she found strange.  She also thought it odd that none of her other relatives had come to visit, until she remembered that she did not know who they were.  She did not even know who she was.  How could her immediate family be expected to know of her presence?

The next time she set about exploring she paused to tie a piece or string she had taken from the cuff of her sleeping garment to the door latch.  She frowned at the white thread that stood in bright contrast to the dark wooden door, worried that it would attract the attention of passersby.

There was nothing for it.  The only other possibility was to scratch the door itself.  No matter how lightly this was done, it would leave a permanent mark which would be a poor way to repay her ancestor for his kindness.

A warm summer evening greeted her as she crawled out of the window and crouched behind a large bush.  When she was satisfied no one was following her, she made her way onto the pathway.  After taking careful note of the landmarks so she would know which window to crawl back in through, she began to shuffle along the winding trail. 

Rounding a corner, she stumbled upon a remarkable sight: there, sitting upon a bench, were two children. Only these were some of the strangest children she had ever seen: one was bent and wizened like an old man, and both held pipes in their mouths. Their feet, which were hanging suspended well above the ground, were quite hairy.  The area was enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke.

‘Hobbits!’ she thought, surprised she could put a name to these strange creatures.  An equally puzzling thought fluttered into her mind: how had they come to be here?

The hobbits were watching her with equal surprise. She wondered what she should do.  There was no point in running.

‘Hello,’ she said, feeling very awkward.  ‘Pleasant evening for a walk.’

The older hobbit seemed to recover from the surprise first.  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said pleasantly.  A faint quaver in his voice betrayed advanced years. 

She wondered what to do.  She was very curious about the hobbits; who they were and where they had come from.  Perhaps they could even tell her where she was. 

This was going through her mind when she realized the silence had gone on a fraction too long.

They younger hobbit took the pipe from between his lips.  ‘We were just taking the evening air.  Would you join us?’ he asked politely.

She examined him carefully for the first time and was surprised to note he was missing a finger on his left hand.  The ghost of a memory stirred at the back of her mind.  This was the sign of something important, but she could not recall what it might be.  ‘Yes.  Thank-you,’ she said, seating herself on the far side of the bench.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, wreathed in blue smoke.

‘Have you been here long?’ asked the younger hobbit.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, not certain how to answer the question. She had no idea how long she had been there.  She was not even sure where ‘here’ was.

‘Not so very long,’ she said.

The hobbits exchanged puzzled glances.

‘Have you?’ she asked.  ‘Been here for long, I mean?’

‘Several years, I should think,’ said the older hobbit.  ‘It is difficult to keep track of time in a place like this.  It hardly seems to matter. I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he continued after another awkward silence.  I am Bilbo Baggins and this is my cousin, Frodo Baggins.’

‘The Ring Bearers!’ she burst out, surprising herself.  She did not know exactly what that meant but she knew it was important.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably.  Bilbo, on the other hand, seemed pleased.  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said.  ‘Although it was Frodo who did most of the hard work.  I was more the Ring Finder.’

Finder.  The word echoed through the empty halls of her mind.  It was tied to her somehow.  She shook her head and found the hobbits watching her nervously.   ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she asked.

‘Only that the house of Elrond is the best place to enjoy a summer evening,’ said Bilbo.

‘The house of Elrond?’ she asked, looking around at the unfamiliar garden with its strange plants. ‘Are we in Rivendell?’

There was another long silence.  The hobbits examined her with pity.  ‘We are on Tol Eressëa,’ said Frodo gently.

‘Eressëa?  The Lonely Isle?  But that cannot be.  My kind are forbidden from…’  She stopped, her head whirling.  The hobbits must be wrong.  They had to be wrong.  But what reason would they have to lie?  ‘Thank-you, but I believe I should go now,’ she said.  ‘Good evening to you.’

She tottered back the way she had come.  It was a struggle to climb into the window.  When she reached her room she threw herself on the bed, her mind spinning. 

Her sleep, when it finally did come, was filled with unquiet dreams of armies, tall ships, oily smoke and a wave so large it could engulf the world.

I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and all of the writers at the Garden of Ithilien who really helped to make this story shine.

The Finder awakened to the unpleasant realization of not being dead.  As impossible was it was to believe, it was the only thing that explained the events of the previous night. A tide of bitter disappointment ripped through her heart. 

She stared at the ceiling until the flood passed and wondered at the reaction; her unremembered life must have been terrible. But what truly puzzled her was a faint but nagging impression of déjà vu. 

The morning sun was far too bright.  She rolled away and a burning pain shot up her arm.  She sat up and rolled up her sleeve.  Her arm was red and swollen but there was no obvious injury.

‘Are you well?’

Her head whipped towards the door.  The dark haired man stood framed in the doorway.  He was holding a cup.  She groaned inwardly, writhing with embarrassment.

‘Not entirely, no,’ she said, covering her arm.  There was little point in denying it. With a great deal of difficulty and a complete lack of grace she struggled to her feet.

‘Master Elrond,’ she said, inclining her head.

‘Good.  You know who I am,’ he said.

‘Now, yes.  I am sorry for mistaking you for your brother,’ she said.  ‘I do not believe I should drink that any more,’ gesturing towards the goblet.

‘I believe you are correct,’ he said.  Striding into the room he placed the cup upon the bedside table.  ‘This potion can take away pain but it has other, less desirable effects.’

‘It removes the memory,’ she said.

‘To some extent it does,’ he said. 'I am sorry.'

‘Will it return?’ she asked.

‘In time it may,’ he replied.  ‘Do you know who you are?’

‘I am the Finder,’ she said automatically.

‘You are called that by some,’ he said.  ‘But do you remember your name?’

She sighed and shook her head in frustration.  Her arm ached abominably.  ‘I was rather hoping you could tell me.’

‘I would if I had ever learnt it,’ he said.

She bit her lip in disappointment.  It was both disconcerting and embarrassing to be without a name.  Still, she had a title of sorts, or perhaps a job description.  That, at least, was something.  ‘Are we on Tol Eressëa?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

She scrubbed her face.  ‘I had hoped the hobbits were wrong,’ she sighed.  ‘I trust I did not overly frighten them?’

‘They were surprised to find another mortal here,’ said Elrond.

‘I shall not be here long,’ she said.

He looked at her quizzically.

‘My people are not to set foot upon the Undying Lands,’ she said.  ‘It has happened before.  The consequences were unimaginable.  Is there a boat that could take me to Middle-earth?’

‘There are no ships to carry you back across the sea,’ he said.

A rising tide of panic threatened to engulf her.  She shoved it away; there was too much at stake for her to give way to hysterics.  ‘Then how did I get here?’ she demanded, her voice harsh.

Elrond looked away. ‘You were brought here,’ he said reluctantly.

The statement was obviously true and completely unhelpful. The frustration did nothing for her mood. ‘Why?  And by whom?’

‘From what I could gather you were injured by a poison arrow,’ he said.

That sounded interesting, at least.  She must have been in a fight.  The prospect did not alarm her as much as it should have. ‘Who told you this?’ she asked.

‘The one who brought you,’ he said.

‘Master Elrond, please, who brought me here?’

Elrond was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer.

‘He said his name was Inglor.’

‘Inglor,’ she echoed, sitting on the edge of the bed.  The name set her heart thumping but she could not say why.

‘Do you remember him?’ asked Elrond.

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.  ‘But I should. Is he here?’  Perhaps this Inglor could answer some of her questions.  He could start be informing her of her name.

‘No,’ said Elrond.  ‘He was summoned to Valinor while you were still unconscious.’

‘Oh,’ she said. The news filled her heart with dread. 

‘As you shall be soon, I imagine.’

The room seemed to darken as though a veil had been thrown over the sun.  The image of an immense wave arose in her mind. 

‘I cannot go to Valinor,’ she gasped.

‘If you are summoned…’ he began.

‘I cannot go to Valinor!’ she insisted, raising her voice.

‘You shall be summoned,’ he said calmly.  ‘You shall not be forced to go.’

‘Good,’ she grunted, mollified.

‘But if you wish to recover your memories, it would probably be best if you did.’

Her shoulders slumped in defeat.  For all that they must be bad, she wanted her memories, or at least her name, back.  But the Ban forbade her people from setting foot in the Undying Lands.  ‘We shall see,’ she said.

‘May I see your arm?’ he asked.

She rolled up her sleeve, taking care not to rub the tender area.  The skin was a swollen, angry red.  Her breath hissed through her teeth when he touched it.

‘I can make a poultice for it,’ he said.  ‘It should soothe it somewhat.’

‘I would appreciate that,’ she said.

‘And something for the pain?’ he asked.

‘As long as it doesn’t affect my memory, such as it is,’ she replied.

Several nights later, the Finder made her way out of Master Elrond’s home on Tol Eressëa. She stayed in the shadows, alert for any sound that would betray the presence of another person.  The sun had set a long time before, but the Elves loved the stars, so the lateness of the hour was no guarantee of there being no one out and about.

Her arm still hurt, but thanks to Master Elrond’s tending the pain was bearable.   She felt a pang of guilt for leaving without thanking him or saying good-bye.  The guilt was easy to rationalize away.  Surely Master Elrond would be happy to see the back of the uninvited invalid who referred to him by his deceased brother’s name and who frightened his legitimate guests.

She traveled by day, keeping to the wild lands and the hedgerows and moving steadily to the east.  The ease with which she adapted to her new situation surprised her and once more she wondered about the life she had led before she had awakened on Tol Eressëa.  The single vivid recollection she had had seemed to have pointed to her having a noble background.  By her admittedly hazy recollections, nobles lived a soft life; most would not be able to live off the land, nor would they be so comfortable sleeping out of doors.  She had most likely been a servant living in a noble’s house and her memory of Tar-Minyatur being the founder of her family was incorrect.

If she could not remember anything of her own life, she was quite able to remember tales of the founding of Numenor and the events that led up to it.  She passed the time silently telling herself the old stories. It made her feel better to think that at least two mortals had set foot in Valinor without dreadful consequences. She hoped to slink away before the Valar became aware of her presence.

After several days of travel she arrived at the eastern coast.  The city of Avallonë lay somewhere on the eastern shore but she was determined to avoid it.  Unlike the cities of Middle-earth where she could blend into the background, in the Blessed Realm no matter what she did she would be conspicuous; and knowing this, she kept to the wild and lonely shores outside the civilized areas.

She passed by solitary huts with only one boat; and this, she knew, could not be taken from the owner without causing great hardship. 

It was several days before she found what she needed: a small hamlet with many ships: Some of them were obviously pleasure craft, and these were kept on shore about the tide line. She settled in to wait for nightfall. 

When she was fairly certain no one would see her, she sauntered up to one furthest from the village and pushed it into the water.  Before long she was steering along the coast as quickly as she could.  Her plan was to take the boat to the mouth of a river she had passed a few days before and hide it while she gathered supplies, particularly fresh water.  Once she had what she hoped would be sufficient provisions, she would strike out to the east. 

The simplicity of the plan was very appealing, but there was something more, a rightness to it.  After years of wandering the Finder longed to return home.

Things went relatively well.  Although her arm hurt, she reached the river’s mouth before dawn and hid the boat in the tall reeds.  Then she sloshed through the water until she reached dry land, found a good spot to camp, wrapped herself in her cloak and fell asleep.

Thirst and an aching arm awakened her. The sky was leaden and air heavy with the promise of rain.   

Raising her head, she looked in the direction of the boat only to find the view obstructed by a pair of legs.  She blinked, hoping the legs were an illusion but they remained stubbornly solid.  Defeated, the Finder looked up.  The legs, which were long and lean, were attached to an equally lean, youthful torso.  Above this was a face that would have been quite fair if it had not been frowning.

Her heart sank.  She had been caught and by a rather imposing individual, too.  There was explaining to do so she climbed to her feet.

‘Are you…’ said the youth.  His frown deepened.

‘Am I?’ she asked helpfully.

‘There are no other mortal humans on Tol Eressëa, so it must be you,’ he said. ‘I am Eonwë, herald of the Valar.  You are summoned to Valinor.’

She looked at him expectantly.

‘And?’ she said.

‘And?’ Eonwë echoed.

The Finder knew the old stories.  When Eonwë had summoned Eärendil to Valmar he had given a very flowery speech.  But that had been the Elder Days and Eärendil was a hero.  She was just an Aftercomer with no memory.

‘And I guess we should be going,’ she sighed.

Once again, I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn and all of the writers at the Garden of Ithilien who really helped to make this story shine.

The Finder stood near the stern of Eonwë’s ship and looked eastward to where the sea and the cloudy sky blended into one.  They were going in the wrong direction.  Every fiber of her being was calling her to the east.  She peered into the curtain of grey, vainly searching for some sign of the familiar, eastern lands but there was nothing but mist and cloud. 

A disapproving Eonwë had allowed her to return the vessel she had purloined.  The craft’s owners had been very understanding, although under the circumstances, with the disgruntled Herald of Manwë looming over the conversation, there had been little else they could do.

The ship was large enough for a dozen people.  The crew was Telerin elves. With no common language, it was impossible for the Finder to communicate with them.

They sailed around the green shores of Tol Eressëa and headed for Valinor. To the west, the rocky walls of the Pelori jutted out of the ocean. Somewhere within that massive rampart was a cleft, where the old stories told of the city of Tirion, built upon the green hill of Tuna.  No mortal who had ever set foot upon those shores had ever returned to Middle-earth; yet, as the spray splashed on her face, the Finder had the eerie sensation she had been there before.

‘Does your arm hurt?’ Eonwë had reluctantly assumed the role of nurse.

‘A little, yes,’ she said.  In actuality it hurt a great deal; she did not like to admit to it.

‘Drink this,’ he said, handing her a flask. 

She sniffed the contents of the flask and pulled a face.  He had gotten the potion, she supposed, from Master Elrond.  If effective medicine had to taste bad, this was the most effective medicine in existence.

‘Two swallows,’ said Eonwë.

Two swallows were two swallows too many, but there was no way she was going to complain.  She had put off taking the medicine, hoping the pain in her arm would lessen to the point that she no longer needed it.  She had reached the point where the pain was worse than the taste of the medicine hours ago, but was too proud to mention it.

Holding her nose, the Finder took two, quick gulps and handed the flask back to Eonwë, who seemed to find her twisted expression of disgust mildly amusing.

‘Would you care for some water?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please,’ she choked.

He handed her a water skin.  She drank deeply, rinsing most of the bad taste from her mouth. Once she gave back the water skin, she wrapped herself in her cloak, found a spot out of the way of the crew, and sat down.  The potion made her drowsy.  As the pain slowly receded she fell asleep.

~*~

The dream pounced on her as though it had been waiting.  The Finder plummetted through a sea of grey mist. She groped for purchase, but there was none to be had.  Shadows and bright sparks of light dance past her as she fell. After a time she noticed the light increasing, as though the sun was trying to break through the clouds. Somewhere, far above her head, came the rumble of distant, earth-shaking thunder.  Before she could look up, the grey mists vanished and she found herself in an eerily familiar garden.

She sighed in frustration and sat back, frowning at the embroidery on her lap. The wind picked up a free length of azure silk from the bench beside her and sent it fluttering across the garden until it settled on a rose bush.  She should go and get it; embroidery silk had become ridiculously expensive and her grandfather, or rather his steward, had gone to some pains to obtain it. 

Try as she might, however, she could not find a truly compelling reason to stand up and walk the few steps to the rose bush. After all of her exploits in the past five years, embroidery was too pedestrian to command her attention.

She shivered.  The wind was from the north and it bore a touch of frost from the far away everlasting ice.  Despite the chill, the change in wind direction was a relief.  The wind in Rómenna usually blew from the west and carried the taint from the unholy altar at Armenolos. Those were the days when there was no escape from the stench of burning flesh; it permeated everything from the highest tower to the deepest, darkest cellars.  

Amadil’s house offered far more opulent surroundings than the caves, hovels and haystacks she had grown accustomed to, but there was still a subtle air of menace about the place. This was hardly surprising. The Faithful were preferred for sacrifices; and those who remained were gathered in Rómenna,where it would be easy for the soldiers of the King to round them up and march them to Armenolos.  

The air in the house itself was tense for other reasons; her cousin had been grievously ill for weeks. There was no sign of improvement and day by day hope for his recovery faded in the miasma of smoke.  

There was no escape from the fear and despair.  It even stalked her in her dreams.  

She shook off feeling of impending doom the dreams always engendered and took in her surroundings instead.  The light was muted; the sun hidden by heavy grey clouds that promised rain. Her grandfather’s house was on the top of a hill overlooking the city of Rómenna, and grandmother’s garden was positioned in such a way to take full advantage of the panoramic view of the harbour.   

There, tall-masted ships stood proudly at anchor while fishing boats darted among them, attracting a flock of seabirds. Merchant ships loaded with the wealth of the eastern lands were tied at the piers. The men loading and unloading them were little more than black ants crawling into and out of the hulls.  

Rómenna was a city of white and green: white houses that stood in bright contrast to the verdant gardens that surrounded them.  It was a city of commerce, its streets bustling with merchants and sailors.  Yet the frantic activity of the docks and the marketplaces masked a creeping sense of despair.   

Placing the embroidery – a depiction of Tar-Minyatur standing at the prow of a white ship, ready to set foot upon Numenor for the first time—onto the bench beside her, she rose to retrieve her embroidery silk.  

‘If any of the King’s court were to seen this it might be construed as rebellious,’ a familiar voice commented from behind her.  

‘Which is well and good for I am a rebel, after all,’ she said evenly.  ‘Fortunately, all in the King’s court are quite certain I am dead.’  

There was a pause and then, 'Do not jest about such things.  Too many of our family have died.'  

'I am sorry, Anárion,' she said, biting back the sharp retort that had been on her lips.  

Her cousin sank onto the bench, taking the space not occupied by the embroidery.  She picked it up and propped it against the side of the bench, seating herself beside him.  Anárion barely noticed.  He watched the fishing boats and the quarreling birds in the harbour below. 'Is there any change?' he asked.  

'None,' she said, shaking her head. 'Isildur is as he had been since he returned from Armenelos.'  

'If he were to die it will have been for nothing,' Anárion said.  His gaze drifted to the mulched patch of earth where the hope of Numenor lay buried.  

'He will not die,' she insisted, placing her hand on his arm.  'He is strong and he will recover.'  She knew the words were false.  She had seen too many strong, young men succumb to death.  The lie was more comforting than the truth and Anárion was in need of reassurance.  

Anárion recognized the untruth for what it was.  He smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes.  'I have no wish to bury my brother, Silmariën.’  

A chill of premonition ran down her back.  ‘Nor do I,’ she said softly.  

 ~*~

The heavens opened.  The deluge was upon them.

The Finder leapt to her feet and found herself soaking wet on the deck of an elvish ship, with waves tossing them about.  While she had slept, the wind had whipped the waves to a froth.  The ship rode up the next wave, paused at the crest, then tumbled downwards.  Water burst around her, drenching her once again.

The crew was working the sail with calm expertise while the captain held the helm steady.  A sailor grasped her by the shoulder and pulled her towards the centre of the ship before she could be drenched a third time.  She allowed herself to be pushed to a slightly less wet location and endeavored to keep out of the way. 

It was difficult as her mind was filled with the memory of the dream. ‘Silmariën?’ she thought incredulously.  ‘My name is Silmariën?’  If ever in history there was a name that did not fit its owner, this was it.

‘You dreamt.’

Silmariën drew a deep breath.  The wind had died to a pleasant breeze which chilled her.  The green shore of Eressëa was to their right, and Eonwë had decided to take an interest in her again.  He stood above her, looking down. 

‘Yesh,’ she replied, deliberately biting her tongue to suppress a sarcastic comment.  She had to be extremely careful.  Manwë’s herald was unlikely to tolerate smart remarks from a mortal who had invaded the Undying Lands, no matter how unwittingly.

‘I trust your dreams were pleasant?’ he asked.

Silmariën – she had a remarkable amount of trouble referring to herself by that name – gazed across the empty expanse of ocean, weighing her answer and hoping the Ainur did not consider a long delay in responding to be a sign of bad manners.

She cast a glance at Eonwë.  He stood as still as a statue, patiently waiting for some response.  ‘They were – informative,’ she said at last.

‘Good.’

I would like to thank my wonderful beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn, who really helped to make this story shine.

The clouds had receded to the east and the clear light of evening shone upon them.  Twilight was rapidly becoming Silmariën’s favourite time of the day for the long, low rays of the sun made everything clearer.  Tol Eressëa lay behind them.  She watched it from the stern of the ship before the sun set.  The retreating land grew smaller and smaller in the distance but it never vanished below the horizon. 

She hesitated before approaching Eonwë.  The Maia was impeccably polite but his distant manner did not encourage casual conversation.

‘Excuse me, Lord Eonwë, but can people see better in the Undying Lands?’ she asked.

Eonwë considered this gravely.  ‘See better in what manner?’ he finally asked.

Silmariën was only familiar with one method of seeing; the one involving eyeballs. The maiar were mystical beings.  It was possible they had other ways of seeing.  She crossed her arms over her chest before continuing the conversation. ‘Do the senses work better because I seem to see farther here than I did in Middle-earth,’ she explained.

Eonwë paused before answering.  She waited, watching the dark line of Tol Eressëa.

‘The air is more pure here than it is in Middle-earth,’ he finally said.  ‘As are all things but I do not believe that is what you are asking.  The world here is as it once was.  The seas are straight.’

She waited for a longer explanation but none was forthcoming.  The sun was west of the Pelori and the long evening of Valinor was drawing to a close.  When she squinted, Tol Eressëa was still visible.

‘There is no horizon!’ she gasped.

‘Horizon?’ asked Eonwë.

‘The line in the distance where the earth curves,’ she replied, shocked that he would ask her to explain such an everyday concept.  ‘When one sails far enough away, an object left behind drops below the curve.  We say it is below the horizon.’

‘An interesting word,’ said Eonwë.  He turned away, effectively ending the conversation.

Silmariën was too busy absorbing the new situation to be insulted. Although it was disconcerting to discover the lack of horizon, it was even worse to discover this lack was extremely familiar.  It was as though she had learned a second language some time in her childhood and, after using it for years, had returned to her mother tongue.  Horizons had been imposed upon her at some time during her existence and she had accepted them as a matter of course.  Now that they were gone, the world seemed right again.

She pondered this as she wrapped herself in her nearly dry cloak and lay down to sleep and, of course, to dream.  

The air of Rómenna was heavy with the reek from the fire at Armenelos. The smoke darkened the sun and the minds of the Faithful who remained in the Land of the Gift.  For over a week the prevailing wind had been from the west.  If anyone had looked in that direction, they would have seen the Meneltarma was shrouded in murk and a pall hanging over the west.  But no one looked west if they could avoid it.

While the eyes could avoid looking in any given direction, there was no such happy escape for the nose. Everyone knew the source of the smell.  Ships full of wretched men from the eastern lands often landed in Rómenna, from which prisoners too old, too young or too weak to serve as slaves upon the King’s warships were shackled together and forced to march down the road to Armenolos. There had been many, many such ships and enough prisoners, it seemed, to equal all of the population of Numenor. Yet for all of those who marched west, none ever returned. 

Silmariën stood at the window of her grandmother’s sitting room, watching the latest cargo of human misery being forced along the western road, her fists clenched in helpless rage.  ‘All of my jewels for a bow and some arrows!’ she muttered.

‘They would do you no good, dear, as you well know.  Come away from the window.’  Her grandmother’s voice was soft and gentle.  She was perfectly correct; as Silmariën well knew, any attack -- real or perceived -- against the forces of Ar-Pharazôn would lead to a quick and brutal retaliation. 

But she was in no mood to be mollified.  The sheer unfairness of it combined with her grandfather’s and uncle’s bland refusals to take action against such an enormous atrocity offended her sense of justice. ‘How can we sit here and do nothing?’ she cried.

Her Grandmother examined her from over the top of her weaving.  ‘And what would you do, dear?  Any overt action would draw the forces of the King here.’

‘The King is Grandfather’s friend,’ said Silmariën.

‘The King is, but many of those who follow him are not!’  Grandmother roared with uncharacteristic rage. ‘They would use the slightest excuse to attack this family and take what little we have left.  Would you bring down the last of the Faithful for the sake of wild men you know not at all?’

Silmariën, shocked by her Grandmother’s temper, fell silent.  She watched the last of the captives disappear on the road to their doom. ‘How can we call ourselves Faithful when this evil goes on and we allow it?’ she asked sullenly.

Her Grandmother sighed, stood up from the loom, walked to the window and placed her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders.  ‘It is difficult to believe in anything in dark times like these but there is one thing which can sustain you despite the misery and the loss.’

‘What is that, Grandmother?’ Silmariën asked dully.

‘Estel, my dear, hope.  No one else can take it from you, not entirely. And so long as you have it, you have a reason to continue.’

‘In what should I place my hope, Grandmother?’ she asked, turning to face her.  ‘If not for strength of arms, what is there?’

‘Do not be so quick to dismiss your Grandfather, child,’ she said cryptically.

‘Grandfather?’ Silmariën laughed harshly. ‘What is Grandfather planning to do? He will not ride openly against the King no matter what atrocities are done.’

Her Grandmother’s face fell.  ‘Not every thing can be won by strength of arms Silmariën,’ she said sadly.

‘It is the only thing the jackals surrounding the King understand,’ spat Silmariën.

‘Oh, my dear, you look so much like your mother.  You have your father’s temper but you look like your mother,’ said Grandmother.  ‘They and your brother are gone but I still have you. It was such a very happy day when you returned.’ Her expression was filled with regret and her grey eyes misted with tears she would not shed. 

‘Grandmother,’ said Silmariën, ‘Isildur was injured the day I returned.’  Her cousin had been grievously injured taking a fruit from Nimloth, the White Tree of Numenor.  She felt it had been a poor exchange.  The others -- her grandfather and uncle in particular -- likely felt the same, although they would never, ever mention it aloud; at least not when she could hear them.

‘He is injured but he is not dead,’ said Grandmother. ‘You were dead, or so we all believed.  If you can return from the dead then any thing is possible.’  Her grey eyes shone with such conviction that it put Silmariën to shame.

She bowed her head.  ‘I wish I could believe that, Grandmother, truly I do, but…” She stopped.  Estel was such a fragile thing. How could she explain what she had seen in the five years she had run with the resistance without destroying it for her grandmother? 

“Excuse me, please, but the air of this chamber is too close.  I shall take the air in the garden.” She sailed out of the room without looking at her grandmother’s face.

The atmosphere in the garden was a small improvement over her grandmother’s chambers, even though the day had been as fair and clear as could be expected in Rómenna when the wind blew from the west and carried the foul reek from Armenolos.

She threw herself onto a bench and glared at the sky. A cloud in the shape of a giant eagle soared overhead.  The great bird’s wings swept backwards as those of a hunting raptor, its cruel talons extended towards the ground.

Frustration welled up in her heart. She could do nothing here but embroider and hide.  Her very presence was a danger to her family.  Everyone believed she had died along with her parents and brother. Uncomfortable questions would be asked if the royal court learned that she still drew breath. 

She would serve a better purpose if she rejoined the ranks of the resistance in Forostar.  It was a hopeless fight, but it would be infinitely preferable to sitting in the false, terrified peace of Rómenna pretending to be a lady while others bled and died.

She glanced skywards again where the cloud glowed red in the dying light of day and cast a lurid glow about the land. She wondered how many of her friends had perished while she had rested in safety and comfort in Rómenna.

There were preparations to be made. As her family would never allow her to go, these would have to be made in secret.  She was mentally listing the supplies she would need when she heard a pair of familiar male voices. 

Terrified that the grandfather and uncle would guess her guilty thoughts, Silmariën instinctively ducked behind a bush. 

‘We must prepare,” she heard her grandfather say.  “Your ships should be loaded under the cover of darkness and only a little at a time lest we rouse unwanted attention.  Take great care, my son, for if any rumour of our plan reaches the King’s advisor, all will be lost.’

‘It shall be as you say, father.’ Her uncles’ voice sounded resigned.  ‘But my heart is not glad for it.’

‘Nor is mine, and yet it must be so.  If what we have learned of Ar-Pharazôn’s plan is true, time is indeed of the essence.’

Plan?  What plan?  Silmariën leaned in closer. 

‘All shall be done as you have ordered,’ her uncle said. ‘Yet it would lighten the hearts of our people if their lord was there to guide them.’

‘Elendil, we have discussed this time and again.  There is nothing for it.  The dreams of destruction become more vivid with each passing night and they are spreading. My steward tells me that the cowherd’s youngest child had the nightmare last night and she is barely old enough to speak.’

‘I did not counsel to ignore the dreams, for surely they are warnings of what is to come.  But will not breaking the Ban of the Valar only bring this fate sooner?’

‘What would you have me do?  Leave Numenor and all of her people to her fate? No.  I will go to the Valar and plead with them as Eärendil once did.’

‘Then should we not have our people stay here, or at least the men who are capable fighters?  The Hosts of Valinor will expect to find allies.’

‘No. The weak shall need protection in Middle-earth for thanks to the depredations of our countrymen, I fear the Men of Numenor shall not be overly welcome.’

‘All the more reason for their lord to lead them.’

‘You shall be their lord, my son, and you shall lead them well. You shall do as you must, as shall I.  My fate lies in the West.’

Silmariën remained frozen behind the bush, unable to move for the shock of what she had just heard. Grandfather Amandil was correct. Who but the Valar could hope to vanquish one of their own? Like the Noldor of old, her people would require the aid of the West to defeat the Enemy. And, like Eärendil, Amandil would beg for their intercession.

And while Grandfather Amandil was a moving and charismatic speaker, he had not seen the atrocities with his own eyes.  Silmariën had.  What she lacked in speaking ability could be more than amply made up for with conviction.

She pulled herself to her feet and ran to the house, unable to contain her excitement.

That night, lying in bed, her mind laid plans at a fevered pace.  When she finally slept, she was plagued by dreams of terrible portents and warnings.  She flung out her arm, gasped in pain, and awakened to discover she was already aboard a ship.

This ship, however, was not Grandfather’s ship.

Cradling her injured arm, Silmariën blearily took in her surroundings and wondered where she was.  The stars shone with cold fire overhead, magnified as they can only be upon the deep waters of the ocean. 

‘Are you well?’

She turned towards the speaker and discovered Eonwë looking down upon her.  Despite his kind words, his beautiful face was expressionless in the starlight. ‘As well as can be expected,’ she said. She began to massage her arm and immediately stopped, engulfed in a wave of pain.

Eonwë did not seem to understand her response.  He stood towering above her, awaiting a clear answer.

‘I am well, thank-you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

He nodded and moved away, leaving Silmariën to try to make sense of the latest revelation. 

The dream, she guessed, was a mixture of old memories and wishful thinking.  It would take some time for her to untangle the skeins of fact and fancy to determine the truth.  It also served as a good distraction from the burning fire in her left arm.

I must thank Aearwen for all of her help with this chapter.  Her suggestions truly made this section shine.  Any remaining mistakes are my own.

The Finder was still pondering the nature of her dreams when sleep overtook her once more.

She opened her eyes to discover a world of pitch black.

It was easy to lose track of time while alone in the constant darkness And though Silmariën did not know how many days and nights had passed since the ship had set sail from Rómenna, she was growing more and more certain they should have reached their destination some time ago.

Something had gone wrong, and this led to another complication. Grandfather Amandil, an experienced and capable captain, always took more supplies than were necessary; but even these were running low. The noise made by the crew when they came to collect a water barrel or a box of food grew closer and closer each day, making it inevitable that she soon would be discovered.
 
An unexpected wave pitched the ship unexpectedly, causing crates and boxes to crash to the floor and demolishing Silmariën’s hiding place just as a crewmember was retrieving supplies for the men above.  Although her cursing was muffled by the sounds of the chaos, too soon the lantern’s light, so dim a moment earlier, suddenly dazzled her eyes. leading her up the ladder and out of the hold without saying a word. The fresh air was cold and damp after the stale warmth of the hold. Silmariën shivered as she followed the crewman above deck and tried to take in her surroundings as she climbed out of the hatch. The world, which had been black for days, became silver. They were surrounded by fog so thick that she could barely see her hand in front of her face. The rigging creaked overhead, the sails and masts  lost in the mist.

‘Who’s there?’ the sailor cried as he hoisted the lantern higher and held it towards the darkness. Behind the glare of the lamp she recognized Lantakan, one of Grandfather’s most trusted servant, who gaped at her in surprise.

Silmariën seized the initiative. ‘Good day to you, Lantakan. If you would be so kind as to lead me to my Grandfather?’

Lantakan was so shocked that he obeyed without question,

A tall shadow loomed before her. Silmariën balked but the crewman walked on, unworried. She chastised herself for being afraid. Three more steps revealed that the shadow was none other than Grandfather Amandil standing at the wheel of the ship. His eyes widened in shock when he recognized her.

Without a word he motioned to Lantakan to take the ship’s wheel. Then he beckoned perfunctorily to Silmariën to follow him. He led her towards the bow of the ship and down the stairs that led below deck. By the time they reached Grandfather’s cabin Silmariën’s knees were shaking so badly she wondered that they did not collapse beneath her.

It was not until they were alone in his cramped quarters than he turned to glare at her.
His hair and beard sparkled with droplets of moisture in the lantern light. He stared down at her until she grew uncomfortable. ‘Silmariën,’ he finally said, his voice low with surprise and disappointment. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I came to help,’ she said fervently.

Grandfather Amandil shook his head. ‘How can you help, child? We are on a fool’s errand that will most certainly be the death of us all. You should have stayed in Rómenna. You are needed there, to aid your grandmother and to help lead our people.’

‘The Faithful will follow Elendil before they follow me,’ she said. ‘They will follow Isildur and Anárion.’

‘They would have followed you as well, if you had stayed to lead them!’ Amandil cried.

Silmariën jumped. She had faced the King’s soldiers without fear, but the thunder in her grandfather’s voice terrified her. ‘I am sorry, Grandfather, I did not know’.

‘Your Grandmother will be frantic. She warned me you might do something desperate but I discounted her worry. I see now I should have listened to her.’ He turned away, his shoulders slumped. ‘Now the load will be that much harder for her to bear.’

Silmariën hesitated then placed her hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. ‘Grandfather I know you do not want me here, but I can aid you in your quest,’ she insisted. ‘You have not seen the horrors in Armenolos. I have. I have seen the murders committed on that unholy altar. I have been in the prisons where the innocent are tormented before being killed. I will tell the Valar, let them look into my mind. It will aid…’

‘You have been inside that temple?’ Grandfather Amandil asked, incredulous.

‘I was trying to help rescue someone,’ she said, raising her chin defiantly.

‘And did you succeed?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘And that is why you chose to accompany me on this trip without asking permission or even telling anyone of your plans?  You are most foolish.’

‘Even a fool can be of use, but you never would have agreed, Grandfather. Besides, Elwing accompanied Eärendil.’

Amandil shook his head sending a spray of find droplets through the air. ‘Child, you are not Elwing and I am not Eärendil. If I could return you to Rómenna, I would, but all has not gone as planned. We are becalmed and lost in the Shadowy Seas.’

Silmariën stared at him, aghast. The old stories had whispered about the snares of the Shadowy Seas. Many elven vessels had sailed into those waters but only one had ever found the other side. There was nothing to tell of the unfortunate mariners’ fates save vague tales of a labyrinth of enchanted islands where any who set foot would instantly fall asleep. Grandfather was correct; she had been a fool to stow away on a hopeless mission.

Grandfather Amandil was speaking again. She almost did not hear him. ‘Since you are here you will help the crew,’ he said sternly. ‘I’ll have no dead weight on my ship.’

‘Yes, Grandfather,’ she said, scuttling to the door.

‘And tell Lantakan to find some spare clothing for you. Your fragrance is hardly flora.’

Blushing furiously, Silmariën backed out of the door.

She awakened disheveled and displaced in the Telerin ship. The newly risen sun cast long shadows to the west. The sailors went about their tasks with the grace of the elves and the efficiency of millennia of practice. Silmariën watched them working together to adjust the sail to best catch the wind. They reminded her of someone; and while the memory was vital, it remained stubbornly out of reach, like a dim star that can be seen only from the corner of the eye.

Frustrated, she searched for Eonwë instead; not because he could offer her any information but because he offered a different sort of aggravation. He was standing in the prow of the ship, looking to the west. With his dark hair flying in the wind and his cloak billowing behind him he cut quite the heroic figure. Silmariën shuffled next to him, feeling quite insignificant and anything but heroic.

Directly before them the Pelori rose straight from the fathomless bottom of the sea. A mountain taller than the rest was on their left. Its peak was white with everlasting snow. It rose to such a great height it was possible to imagine the top resting among the stars.

‘Taniquetil,’ she breathed in awe.

‘Upon which rests the Mansion of Manwë and Varda,’ said Eonwe. ‘Few of the Second Born people have looked upon it and lived.’

Silmariën bowed her head. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t look at it, then,’ she mumbled.

‘You, however, seem curiously immune.’ Eonwë continued as though she had not spoken.

She opened her mouth, a sharp retort on her lips, then thought better of it and snapped it closed again. She had no desire to swim across the bay.

Elvenhome was stunning. White sand glistening in the morning sun were festooned with glints of red, blue, green and gold; the jewels the Noldor had crafted long ago, strewn about for the enjoyment of all. It was incredibly beautiful yet as Silmariën looked at it she could not help but imagine how a crew of mortal sailors would react to the display of riches.

The Elves of Valinor obviously had very different ideas of what constituted riches.
 
The ship sailed closer and closer to the white sand at the head of the bay where a stream joined the ocean. It suddenly lurched as the keel slid upon the sandy bottom. Silmariën pitched forward and caught herself on the prow of the ship. A fiery burst of pain shot up her arm.

Eonwë did not appear to notice her clumsiness. He leapt into the water and waded towards the shore.

Silmariën looked after him in dismay. For all that she had been summoned and all that she had already set foot upon Tol Eressëa, the natural dread of stepping onto the shores of Valinor filled her heart and froze her in place. She looked up the Calacirya, the cleft in the wall of the Pelori, and shuddered.

The white walls of rock looked permanent and deceptively solid but there had been a time when those stones had rained down upon an entire army. When the dust had settled, it was as though those thousands in their splendid armour had never been there at all. Of all of the host of Ar-Pharazôn, all the men, all of their princely mail, all of their horses in rich livery, all of their banners and trumpets and deadly weapons, all of it had vanished beneath the mountains. Was that not the dust of the catastrophe still hanging in the air before her?

Yet for all the slaughter, that had not been the worst of the events of that fateful day. Silmariën looked east, beyond the waters of the bay, beyond the horizonless expanse of ocean, beyond Tol Eressea to where her home should have been.

The ground shook beneath the ship and the sky turned to black. A great wind came from the west, driving the helpless ship to the brink of doom while the sailors cried in fear and despair.

‘Silmariën.’

The sky was clear once more. Eonwë was standing on the beach, watching her. There was no sympathy in his fair face.

Shaken, she looked to the elves for support. They were watching her curiously; and plainly wanted to be rid of the Afterborn passenger so they could return to their homes.

She should follow Eonwë. He was expecting her to do so. Years ago she had followed her grandfather easily enough even though she had been specifically told to stay on the ship. But then she had been young and foolish. Now that she was old and somewhat less foolish, she wanted some reassurance. ‘Lord Eonwë, a moment, please.’

He watched her impassively giving no sign of disapproval for the delay but no sign of encouragement, either.

‘You desire me to follow you?’ she asked.

‘You have been summoned,’ he replied.

‘Yes, I know,’ she said, unable to entirely hide her impatience. ‘But the last time my countrymen set foot on Valinor there were grave consequences for others. I would not have that happen again.’

Eonwë regarded her coolly. ‘You have been summoned,’ he repeated.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘And you are hardly an army,’ he continued as though she had not interrupted. She looked down at her travel worn clothing and threadbare boots. No one could possibly conceive of her as a threat, except, perhaps, to the family silverware.

Face blazing, she turned to the Telerin sailors. ‘Thank-you,’ she said in Sindarin. They nodded in brief acknowledgement.

Taking a deep breath, Silmariën grasped the gunwale and leapt over the side of the ship. Water poured into her leaky boots. She sloshed inelegantly to the shore. Behind her, the sailors had jumped into the water. They pushed the ship into deeper water and easily leapt aboard. The ship quickly came about, her prow pointed towards the north-east.

As she removed her boots and poured out the water, Silmariën watched the ship leave with a twist of regret. She was not comfortable alone in the company of Eonwë. She had felt inferior in the presence of the elves, but that was nothing compared to the sense of sheer inadequacy engendered by the Herald of Manwë. If Eonwë had been carrying any burden, she would have felt compelled to bear it for him.

She regarded the Calacirya. A stream rushed down the centre of the cleft, its whispering waters pouring into the sea; and beside the stream a white road wound into the depths of the pass, climbing as it wound ever higher towards a green hill. A white city, magnificent in the morning light, stood gleaming like an enormous pearl upon the summit of the hill.

‘Tirion,’ she whispered.

Eonwë said nothing, gave no indication he had noticed she had spoken. He walked along the white road that began at the edge of the beach. Silmariën trudged along beside him, her boots squelching with every step. The only concession he made to her presence was to slow his pace. This he did without any show of impatience.

Silmariën found walking the road extremely disconcerting. Her eyes were continually trained on the ground rather than the wonders around her. It felt, she decided, like walking through a graveyard or over the scene of a great battle long after the bones of the dead had been picked clean and the earth had covered them over. She desperately wanted to walk faster but as much as her spirit desired to quit this place, her body was unable to comply. Her left arm ached and she had neither eaten nor drank since the day before.

Leaving the road, she approached the stream. It bubbled merrily over a bed of white stones. Kneeling down, she cupped her hands and greedily drank the cold, clear water then splashed it over her face and hands.

Eonwë was waiting for her when she returned to the road, her face dripping and red from the cold. If he was perturbed by the unannounced delay he gave no sign of it.

‘If you require nourishment, it shall be given you in Tirion,’ he said.

Her stomach growled loudly at the mention of food. Eonwë stared at it. ‘Pardon me,’ said Silmariën, blushing to the roots of her hair.

‘What was that noise?’ he asked.

Silmariën’s mouth dropped open. ‘My stomach is reminding me it is empty,’ she said.

He continued examining her midriff with something that might be called curiosity if it was possible for a statue to change its facial expression. ‘The stomachs of the Second Born are capable of speech?’ he finally asked.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Silmariën. The conversation had taken a strange yet somehow familiar turn. ‘It’s involuntary.’

‘What is involuntary?’

‘It means that I did not tell it to make a noise just as I do not command my heart to beat,’ Silmariën said after a long pause. It was exceedingly difficult to explain something as commonplace as an empty, rumbling stomach.

‘The bodies of the Afterborn are capable of such things?’ he asked.

‘All of the time,’ she said.

Eonwë continued to watch her stomach as though he expected it to do something interesting. ‘Can you do it again?’ he asked.

‘Not on demand,’ said Silmariën, shifting from foot to foot. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. It had the potential to go in many, many embarrassing directions.

‘Is that part of being involuntary?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, staring over his shoulder.

‘Is that why your face went red?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she confessed, the heat of a flush rising from her neck once again.

‘Interesting,’ he said. Much to Silmariën’s relief he began to walk towards Tirion and mercifully let the subject drop.

The Undying Lands were neither kind nor forgiving to mortals who trespassed upon them and particularly not so to those who were injured, hungry and who had misplaced their memory somewhere along the way. 

This was the thread of thought that ran through Silmariën’s mind as she followed Eonwë upon the white road to Tirion.  It seemed as though she walked in a waking dream; now she walked along the tree-lined avenue with Eonwë. In another moment she walked behind her grandfather, his back rigid with anger for her intransigence, her explanations and excuses falling upon his deaf ears.

She remembered their final conversation after the Valar had refused his request for help.  He had seemed oddly at peace for someone whose desperate quest had ended in failure.

‘How could they refuse?’ Silmariën had seethed, her hands clenched into tight fists. ‘Did you not tell them of the abominations? Of the sacrifices and the accursed altar?’

‘Of course I did, child,’ Grandfather Amandil sighed.

‘Then how could they refuse?’ she demanded.

Grandfather raised his hand to forestall further argument.  ‘They are the Valar, Silmariën.  It is not for us to question them.’

How she had longed to scream ‘Why not?’ but her grandfather’s haggard expression stopped her.  ‘Grandfather, are you well?’ she asked.

‘Well?’ he asked, sounding as though the question confused him.  ‘For myself, yes, I am as well as I shall ever be, but you, my dear Granddaughter.’  He shook his head. ‘You should have stayed with your Grandmother, Silmariën.  Now you shall have no one when your time comes.’  His eyes were filled with regret.

‘There, there, Grandfather. You are here and in any case I can see to myself,’ she said, patting his hand and forcing a brave smile onto her face.

‘For now, yes, but not for long. I should have taken better care of you.  Forgive me, Silmariën.’

Fear stabbed at her heart.  She looked to the east.  A dull pall of darkness lay in the eastern sky.  ‘We shall be leaving for home soon, I imagine.’

But they had not left for home.  Grandfather Amandil had died in the night, leaving Silmariën alone upon strange shores.

She returned to the present; the white road and the dappled shadows. There was a pond beside the pond. Silmariën suddenly realized she was parched. Without asking for permission, she veered off the path.  A memory engulfed her as she approached the water. 

She had sat at the edge of a similar pond in the past, throwing rocks and sticks into the still water, her mood blacker than the night.

‘Silmariën?’ someone had asked, his voice calm and gentle.

‘I don’t imagine there are many other mortals in the Undying Lands,’ she said, picking up another rock and hurling it into the water. 

‘I have seen your Grandfather.  He is…’

‘Dead.  Yes, I know.  Several people have been most anxious to tell me.’  She wished he would go way.  Wasn’t it bad enough without people reminding her? ‘By the Grace given to our House, surrendered his life willingly, in accordance with the declaration of the Valar.’

There was a moment of silence.  Silmariën hoped the speaker, whomever it was, would leave.

‘He looked to be at peace.’

‘Well, he is quiet, but the dead usually are.  That was the point, wasn’t it?  To make him be quiet? I imagine they would be pleased if I were to die upon command as well.’

That should have been rude enough to persuade the individual to leave. But this one was particularly stubborn. Silmariën decided to take a more direct approach. ‘Tell me, if you had to chose your own demise, what matter of death would you select?’

‘I would not recommend being torn apart by a wolf,’ he said calmly.

Silmariën finally looked at her visitor, guessing his identity.  His hair was golden and face filled with wisdom.  Of all the people to insult. The rock she had been holding dropped to the ground. ‘Lord Finrod, forgive me.’

‘It is already forgiven,’ he said.  ‘You are mourning your grandfather.’

Her face twisted in anger. ‘There was no need for this. They could have let us go.  Ar-Pharazôn would be more than pleased to see to our deaths.’

‘I cannot speak to that,’ said Finrod.  ‘But I believe Lord Amandil’s death was far more peaceful here than it would have been in your own lands.’

‘And what of my death, Lord Finrod?  Do you have any words of wisdom?’ she asked.

‘What have you decided?’ he asked.

‘What can I decide? As much as I loved him my grandfather had seen many years.  I believe he expected this sacrifice would be necessary before he ever set sail.’

‘And what did you expect?’ he asked.

‘I expected the Valar to help my people,’ she cried.  ‘My grandfather knew what was happening in Armenolos -  he knew how Sauron had corrupted our King -- but he had not actually seen it with his own eyes.’  She squeezed her eyes shut as though to drive away the images burnt in her memory. 

‘I have seen it, Lord Finrod -- the prisons, the torturers, the sacrifices -- seen all these thing.  I thought if the Valar would but look into my mind they would see the dire situation my people face. I thought if they knew, were not simply told but knew, they would have no choice but to help.  I was as certain of it as I have been certain of little else in this life. If they had done this, if they had agreed to come to the aid of my people I would have gladly surrendered my life and found the price small.’

She threw back her head and drew a deep, ragged breath. ‘I was wrong,’ she said, forcing a false smile to her lips.  ‘And now I find myself stranded on unfriendly shores and expected to die, all for nothing.’

‘What help would have been acceptable?’ he asked.

‘Anything that would rid my country of Sauron,’ she said fervently.

‘Sauron is of Middle-earth,’ he said.

‘Sauron is one of the Ainur,’ Silmariën countered.  ‘I have studied the old texts. The Host of the Valar demanded he surrender at the end of the War of Wrath; but instead of seeking him out and insisting justice be exacted for his crimes, he was allowed to flee.  How much damage has been inflicted upon Middle-earth because those who could have done it did not bother to capture him?’

‘It is not the way of the Valar to force their will upon others,’ said Finrod.

‘Yet they would force me do die,’ she countered.

‘They do not force you to do anything,’ Finrod insisted.

‘Lord Finrod, what else am I to do?  No one will bear me away from here, yet if I stay I will die.  I am dying already.’

Happily the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger.  He was agitated although in comparison to Silmariën’s outbursts his agitation seemed pale.    ‘Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Finrod but you are summoned by the King to return to Tirion immediately.’

‘Of course,’ said Finrod calmly.  ‘Can you tell me why I am summoned?’

The messenger glanced apprehensively at Silmariën who was too busy chewing her lips to notice him.  ‘A great fleet of ships approached the Bay of Eldahome,’ he said.  ‘There are so many that the sea is black with them. They bear the device of the King of Númenor. The Teleri have come to Tirion and King Finarfin has welcomed them gladly,’ said the messenger.

‘I shall come at once and aid the Host of the Valar in giving battle,’ said Finrod. Silmariën thought he looked mildly surprised.

‘Forgive me, Lord Finrod but the King said nothing about giving battle.’

Finrod paused in confusion. ‘Very well.  I shall help in the defense of my city.’  He turned to Silmariën.  ‘If you will please excuse me,’ he said.

‘If you please I am coming with you,’ she replied.

‘Forgive me but it is not safe,’ he said, annoyed with the delay, however slight.

‘Forgive me but nowhere in Valinor is safe for me,’ she said.  ‘Besides, I have chosen the manner of my death.  If the Ainur and the Elves will not fight for Valinor, I will.’

The images whirled about in her mind as they began to climb the green hill of Tuna.  Tirion, the white city of the Noldor, shone upon the summit but Silmariën would not raise her eyes to gaze upon it.

She halted, turned, and looked back the way she had come and was engulfed by memory. The green grass and flowers of the Calacirya disappeared.  In their place was a host of men and horses the like of which had never been seen before. 

The army of Numenor and the flower of Númenórean chivalry stood arrayed in the pass of Calacirya.  The banners of the five of the six regions, Forostar, Andustar, Hyarnustar, Hyarrostar and Mittalmar snapped in the eastern wind alongside those of the King.  Only the banner of Orrostar, once the symbol of her grandfather – her uncle’s now – was missing.  She wondered what that absence might mean.  Was the rest of her family now dead at the hands of Sauron’s agents?  Or had they somehow escaped without answering the summons?  She fervently hoped it was the latter but she would never know and soon it would not matter.

As she brandished her sword she realized she was being a fool again. Who did she think she was marching alone against the entire host of Numenor? Her proud words, spoken in the heat of fury before the Princes of the Noldor, came back to haunt her:  “If you will not fight for the Undying Lands, I will.”  At the time it had seemed the right thing to say; the Valar had spurned Grandfather’s request for help.  Silmariën, in spite of all her determination, had not been allowed to enter the Ring of Doom, much less address the Powers. Now her grandfather was dead.  So was the crew who had faithfully sailed with them. Although no one had told her, Silmarien was certain she was dying as well, her life force draining away with each passing day.  With nothing to lose, why not die fighting?   

It had all made sense at the time, but now she was a ridiculous child playing at war and the figure she cut marching down Tuna alone was far from heroic. It was cold comfort to know this would be the last poor decision she would make.

What would the elvish minstrels sing of her, assuming they sang anything at all?  Would Silmariën be remembered for her foolishness? Would elvish children dress up as the silly mortal woman who walked directly into death?  Part of her wondered, in a detached way while the larger part of her mind assured her that she would soon be beyond caring.

Several of the nearby knights were looking in her direction.  They seemed bored, or perhaps amused.  They certainly did not seem intimidated. One knight, a large fellow astride an even larger horse, barked an order to the archer who was following on foot.  The archer glanced her way, shrugged then casually began stringing his bow. 

The Númenórean archers were the best in the world; entire armies had been put to flight at the rumour of their coming.  There had been more than one general in Middle-earth whose army had been cut down before it ever had the chance to engage them. Silmariën marched directly towards him.

The ground began to tremble. She stumbled but continued onwards, determined to meet her end bravely.

Then the world splintered.  There was a great roaring, louder than anything she had ever heard.  It was all she could do not to clasp her hands over her ears as the earth rattled beneath her feet and she slid down the slope.  In the valley, the Host of Numenor was in disarray.  Men and horses screamed in panic.  Knights on horseback trampled foot soldiers in their rush to quit the narrow-walled cleft. 

Suddenly, beginning at the sea and racing inland, the sides of the Calacirya cracked and collapsed inwards. As Silmariën watched in disbelief the Host of Numenor was covered in an avalanche of stone and dust. 

The last to be taken was the King.  He and the members of his household and guard were in the vanguard of the Host.  They raced towards the end of the Calacirya, towards the Plains of Valinor, when they were overtaken by disaster and disappeared forever beneath the bones of Arda.

A cloud of stone dust enveloped the world, blinding and choking Silmariën.  Throwing her arm over her nose and mouth, she collapsed to the ground and waited for the earth to swallow her. 

The dust began to settle, but the roaring, instead of abating, grew louder.  Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the east and the sea.  The Bay of Elvenhome, which had been darkened by the ships of the Númenóreans, was unaccountably empty. Not only was it empty of ships; it was empty of water.  A black cloud bloomed in the eastern sky, spreading inky strands across the clear blue vault.

Silmariën was gripped with a terrible certainty.  The horrible dreams that had haunted her for the past years suddenly made sense.  ‘No!’  She meant it to be a cry but it was little more than a croak.  She fled down the hillside and scrambled over the rocks, heedless of the bruises and scrapes she endured when she lost her footing and fell to the ground. ‘No. No. NO!’ she shouted, falling painfully to her knees.

Hands pulled at her shoulders.  She violently shook them off.

‘They’re gone!’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ a calm voice agreed.  ‘The pass has swallowed them.’

“They’re all gone.  It must be my punishment to yet be alive!’  She sank to her knees, sobbing hysterically, pounding her fists into the sharp rocks.  ‘They’re gone.  All gone.’ 

Silmarien looked up.  The figure before her, barely discernable in the dust, was tall and imposing.  A bushy beard obscured his features.

‘Hush, child. All is not lost. Come with me.’

Silmariën came back to herself.  The rocks were gone.  She had two fistfuls of grass in her hands, the green blades trailing to the ground.

‘Hush.  Hush.  You are frightening the birds.’  Eonwë towered over her.  Refracted through her tears, there appeared to be three of him.  His placid features had shifted ever so slightly, although it was impossible to tell what emotion his expression was meant to convey.  Silmariën viciously rubbed her eyes.  He probably just wanted her to be quiet.

‘I don’t want to go to Tirion.’  The words were meant to be fiery and defiant, but they sounded petulant.

This seemed to confuse Eonwë for he hesitated before replying. ‘I was told you would need food and…’ he seemed to grope for the word, ‘Rest.’

‘I’m not hungry.’ It was a lie, but seeing Eonwë off balance had given her confidence.  ‘And I believe I will soon have a great deal of time to rest.’

Eonwë blinked.  A sense of familiarity hit Silmariën in the gut. 

‘Have we met before?’ she asked. 

‘Yes.’

‘When?  Where?’ she asked, excited at the prospect of learning more of her own past.

‘Several days ago upon the eastern shore of Tol Eressëa.’

‘Oh,’ said Silmariën, a bitter taste of disappointment filling her mouth.  She briefly wondered if Eonwë would kill her if she hit him.  She clenched her hand into a fist, but his jaw was a long way up and she was very tired.  It was just too much work to find out.  Besides, it would be incredibly bad manners. 

‘Shall we go, then?’ she asked without any enthusiasm.

The road was white and smooth as glass and it wound from the western gates of Tirion through the Calacirya and into the heart of Valinor.  The way had been built by the clever hands of the Elves as a sure path between Tirion and Valmar, the city of the Valar, and it was bordered by the wonders of the Undying Lands.

Silmariën had walked this way at least twice before, once with confident aspiration, and once again in the bitter loneliness of hope defeated.  She recalled both passages and they blended together like paints on an artist’s palette. The last time she had walked this path her emotions had nearly engulfed her, yet now the memory stirred little more than a vague sense of embarrassment.

The fragrant trees of Valinor, the lairelossë and the nessamelda, soared overhead, their boughs intertwining high above the white road.  The air was perfumed with their fragrance as it had been in her childhood home, in Eldalondë.

The round, scarlet fruits of the yavannamirë hung dependant before her.  A childhood memory passed through her mind.  She had picked the red, globular fruit and hung it about her as a necklace, staining her clothing in the process.  Her mother had found it difficult not to laugh when Silmariën had proudly displayed her new jewelry, although the merriment had lessened when she had refused to part with it when she had been tucked into bed.  The fate of that necklace she had never learned, for it had been gone when she had awakened the next morning, the only memory of it the stains on the bedclothes.

They passed an ancient oiolairë, its trunk so thick that five full-grown men standing with arms extended could not span the circumference. 

She had attached the Bough of Return to the ships of her friends when they had run supplies in and refugees out of the rugged harbour on Forostar.  Once, in a fit of pique, she had refused her duty. The ship had never returned and she had never forgiven herself.  Thereafter the gifting of the Bough of Return had been left to others.

Silmariën dwelt upon the memory and examined it with regret, not for the deaths of her friends, but for the ill will with which they had parted. 

The trees crowded close together, the thickness of their whispering leaves plunging the road into twilight.  She glanced upwards, where silver and white blossoms twinkled like the stars, and remembered a desperate ride along another road, clinging to the back of Isildur’s horse, frantically trying to hold her grievously wounded cousin in the saddle while the King’s Guards thundered behind in swift pursuit.  If not for the sacrifice of a farmer they had met along the way, they would have been captured and all would have been lost.  Silmariën thought of the man with remorse; he had been poor by the standards of her people.  She could barely recall his face and she never knew his name.  He had paid the ultimate price, but she had barely thought of him since.

Time stretched behind her like the white road to Valmar but unlike the road the points in the distance were the clearest while those close by remained indistinct. She tried to focus upon them but they blended together and dissolved into misty nothingness.  She shrugged helplessly, comforted by the odd certainty that the memories would return in time. 

Only how much time did she have?  She had broken the Ban and entered the Undying Lands without leave.  As before, her life was draining away; she could feel it ebbing with each step.  When she had first been here, she had been young and strong.  Desperation and anger had kept her from relinquishing her vitality. Now, with everyone she had known gone, there seemed little point in fighting.  Her life could run out before she reached the Ring of Doom.

‘That would solve the problem, wouldn’t it?’ she said grimly.

‘What problem would this be?’ Eonwë asked over his shoulder. 

Silmariën examined him from under her lashes.  Did the Aina know her thoughts?  It seemed unlikely; if he had, he would never have asked the question.

‘Nothing,’ she said shortly.  Even if he did realize she was lying, what could he do about it?  

‘If you require…rest,’ he said.  The pause was shorter this time.  He must be growing more accustomed to the unfamiliar word. 

Silmariën shrugged and continued walking.

The forest gave way to fields.  Irises bloomed on the banks of the stream that ran alongside the road so the grass was awash with subtle shades of blue and purple, white and gold.  It seemed odd, although it took some time for her to understand why.  It was summer here, and the wrong time of the year for irises which should only blossom in the spring. 

‘Do they always do that?’ she asked, puzzled.

Eonwë followed the direction of her gaze and gravely considered the scenery. ‘Do the flowers of Middle-earth now do something other than blossom?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ said Silmariën slowly.  ‘But they do so in their own season and the season should be over.’

‘Aman is what Arda should have been,’ he said.  ‘These flowers were meant to be delightful throughout the year, not for one brief span in a single season.’

Silmariën studied the delicate hues of mauve and azure blending with the vibrant green of the eternal grass. ‘So flowers in Middle-earth are more like the Second Born who soon fade and die while the flowers in Aman are like the First Born.’ She examined the fields and streams, her features creased by a frown.  ‘I like the others better. This place is not meant for my kind.’

‘Yet the Second Born are accounted the Children of Eru,’ he said.

‘I do not know how welcome I would be if all the world was as Aman,’ she said, chewing her lip.  ‘And there is the Ban.’

Eonwë continued walking.  Silmariën followed in his wake.

White city walls rose in the distance.  Sunlight glinted from silver and golden roofs.  ‘Which place is that?’ she asked, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the reflected light.

‘That is Valmar,’ said Eonwë.  ‘The City of the Valar.’

‘Oh,’ said Silmariën. A distant part of her wondered at the variety of interesting things that were hidden in that city.  It would be a professional challenge to borrow some of them for a time or even to look upon them illicitly.

Not that she would have the opportunity. Eonwë was certain to insist upon her good behavior.

It took most of the day to reach Valmar.  Try as she might Silmariën could gain little more than brief glimpses of the mansions of the Valar.  What little she did see was so overwhelming that she could not form a clear memory of it. 

‘Half a moment,’ she said as trudged along an eerily empty street paved with gold. 

Eonwë stopped and watched her with an impassive expression.  Silmariën wished he would at least have the courtesy to appear annoyed.

‘I take it am I here to be judged by the Valar?’ she asked.

‘You are summoned to Ring of Doom,’ said Eonwë.

‘Yes, I know.  You’ve told me over and over since you found me.  But I will be expected to stand before the Valar, will I not?’

‘The Valar do not tell me the reason for their summons,’ he said.

‘Don’t you ever wonder why they tell you to do things?’ she asked in exasperated disbelief.

‘It is not my place to know,’ he said. 

‘That doesn’t matter.  Don’t you ever wonder?’

Eonwë studied her.  It was as though a marble statue had stepped from its pedestal to examine her.  Silmariën shifted from foot to foot and wished she had never asked the question.

‘Did you?’ he finally asked.

‘I…what?’ she asked.  Of all the answers he could have given, this was the last she had expected.

He continued walking.  Silmariën jogged after him, groping after the frayed ends of her thoughts.

‘Look, if I’m going to stand before the Valar, do you think there is any chance I could wash up?’

Eonwë did not answer immediately.  Silmariën wondered if he had heard her.  She glanced down at her travel stained clothing.  Perhaps she was so disrespectable that no amount of scrubbing would make her worthy.  A lump of anger grew in the pit of her stomach. 

‘I’m doomed anyways.  Would it cost you so much to allow me a little dignity?’ she growled.

‘There will be a place for you to make whatever preparations you deem necessary,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘Where?’ she demanded.

Eonwe marched onwards.

Silmariën considered refusing to take another step.  What would the Herald of Manwë do?  Carry her over his shoulder like a recalcitrant sack of potatoes?  It would hardly be a dignified entrance to her judgement, but there was no way it could end well.  Why not cause a last bit of trouble while she could?

Then she remembered her Grandfather and all of her ancestors.  What would they say if the knew their descendent had disgraced herself before the Valar?

Silmariën cursed under her breath and stomped after her guide.

They reached the western gates of the city as the sun was setting.  Anor still ran a straight course over the lands of Aman. As of old, she tarried on the West, prolonging the evening hours with her golden light.

There was a tent beside the road, its white walls billowed in the breeze.  Eonwë stopped before it.  ‘Anything you might wish is inside,’ he said.

‘What about a nice, fast boat back to Middle-earth?’ she asked.

Eonwë looked puzzled.  ‘It would be of little use.  There are many leagues between here and the sea.’

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Silmariën, feeling quite foolish.  She shouldn’t have expected Eonwë to have a sense of humour.

She stepped into the tent and discovered a treasure trove.  The place was sparsely furnished, with only a desk and a chair.  What the effects lacked in quantity they more than made up for in quality.  The furnishings were made of a dark wood with deep grain and decorated with an inlay of silver and mother of pearl.  Silmariën traced the arm of the chair with her fingertips and whistled quietly.  Powerful kings of Middle-earth would have valued this chair over their thrones.

A silver brush, comb and hand mirror rested on the desk along with ribbons the colour of the sky and a white, folded garment. Silmariën loosened the string that tethered her hair and reached for the brush but stopped short of picking it up.  Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble just to let her brush her hair.  There seemed little point in doing so when she was covered in the dust of the road.  If only she had asked for the opportunity to bathe! 

The interior of the tent was smaller than she had expected it to be.  On a hunch, Silmariën pulled back the wall of the tent and discovered a tub filled with scented water. She thrust her hand into the water, half expecting it to be freezing cold.  To her delight, it was quite warm. Scarcely believing her luck, she removed her clothing and climbed into the tub to bathe her skin and hair. 

Someone had kindly provided oil.  Silmariën rubbed it into her skin.  She was covered in a rough patchwork of scars.  A particularly large and ugly one marred her right side.  Running her fingers over the ridge of scar tissue, Silmariën wondered how she had acquired it.  A dim memory stirred at the back of her mind.  She stood on the deck of a warship, alone under the night sky except for a tall, muscular man who wielded a long, wicked sword.  The blade glowed with cold, white light as it lunged towards her heart. She barely managed to raise her own sword to block the deadly thrust. The blades met with a resounding clang and Silmariën distantly noted that her own sword shone with cold fury.

She sat up, clutching the scar and discovered the water had grown cold.  How much time had past while she had been lost in memory?  Now she would have to dunk her head under cold water to rinse the oil out of her hair.

This proved to be harder than it should have been.  It was not simply physical discomfort that made her reluctant to go beneath the surface.  Try as she might, she could not force herself to put her face under the water.  At last she grew annoyed.  Pinching her nose between her fingers, she pushed herself backwards.  The water closed over her head.

It was icy cold and a strong current was insistently pulling at her. To give in to it would be certain death.  She was clutching a black arrow in one hand.  It was unthinkable to drop it.  Her chest burned like hot coals as she struggled to regain the surface.  Yet even as she struggled, she knew she would not survive.  A bright light appeared before her…   

Silmariën broke the surface of the water, gasping for air.  She scrambled out of the tub as quickly as she could, anxious to get out of the water.  Evidently she had gone on to do things after her first visit to Valinor, but what, exactly, had she been doing and why?  The sword and the arrow had been of the utmost importance.  She had needed them.  But if she had needed them, where were they now?  What had she done with them?  Had she lost them? What had she been doing since her King’s ill-fated invasion of the Undying Lands? 

Try as she might, no other memories presented themselves.  The only sound was the quiet flapping of the tent and the drip of the water as it fell from her skin and hair to the ground.

Silmariën came back to herself and looked around.  A fine layer of scum and dirt floated on top of the water.  She felt a pang of embarrassment for the mess.  Who, she wondered, cleaned dirty tubs in Valinor?  She had seen no one that she could identify as a servant; then again, she had hardly seen anyone at all. 

Wrapping herself in a thick white towel, she picked up her discarded clothing.  It seemed a shame to put the dirty garments onto her clean body.  There may have been a white dress in the other part of the tent.  Holding the towel around her, she made her way to the front room.  She shot an uneasy glance at the door of the tent, wondering if her ablutions had continued too long and if Eonwë was about to barge in and order her out before she had a chance to dress.

There was a gown on the desk.  It was made of a soft, gossamer like material that reminded Silmariën of her mother’s best dresses.  She shook it out and examined it with some dismay.  Not only was it too transparent and clingy for her tastes, it was doubtful that it held any of the hidden pockets that lined her old shirt.  If she was going to wear this, she would have to leave all of her accouterments behind. It would be worse than being naked. 

Then again, she was unlikely to need them anymore. 

Sighing with resignation, Silmariën pulled the white gown over her head.  It was a struggle to squirm into it as the fabric stuck to her damp skin. She then emptied her hidden pockets of her old shirt. 

There were many small, well-balanced knives as well as a tinderbox, a lump of wax and something that might have been soap.  One pocket yielded a tightly rolled piece of leather.  Silmariën unwound the leather to discover a set of long, thin, metal rods.

She held one up to scrutinize it. 

Lock picks.  They were lock picks.  Why was she carrying a set of thief’s tools? 

She had used them to very good effect, opening doors and treasure chests believed to be immune to thievery.  In fact, she had used the very tool she currently held in her hand to open the chest that had held Daeron’s flute.

The lock pick dropped out of her nerveless fingers.  Daeron’s flute?  She must have crossed from memory into delirium. 

She folded her old clothing and carefully stacked her belongings beside it.  She doubted she would need any of it again.  Whoever cleaned up after her would probably burn the lot. 

There was a set of delicate slippers beside the desk.  Silmariën considered them briefly, then reached for her extremely old boots.  The man who had made them for her had been a dear friend.  She owed him her life.  There was no way she was leaving his gift to be burned.

She grabbed the silver brush.  It was far lighter than she had expected it to be.  Silmariën stared at it in disbelief.  It was mithril.  They had given a condemned trespasser a mithril hairbrush to use.  The riches of this place boggled the mind. The brush alone would be worth enough to afford her a comfortable retirement anywhere in Middle-earth.  

Not that it mattered now.  She quickly ran the brush over her still damp hair to remove the worst of the knots.  Once upon a time, someone would have braided it for her.  If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel gentle fingers caressing her hair.  Embarrassment and awkwardness swept over her.  Someone had brushed her hair only it had been wildly inappropriate.  Silmariën threw the brush onto the desk, releasing it as though it had burned her.  How in the world could having her hair brushed be unseemly?  Could it be the person brushing her hair have been male?  She shook her head in confusion.  Why would brushing her hair bring back such a vivid yet maddeningly incomplete memory?  More to the point, why would a man have brushed her hair at all?

There were so many mysteries.  She wondered if the Valar would be kind enough to explain them to her before she met her fate.  It seemed unlikely and she was almost too tired to care. 

Her gaze drifted to the hand mirror that still lay on the desk.  Silmariën had not taken a good look at herself since she had awakened in Elrond’s home on Tol Eressëa.  She picked up the mirror, gazed into it and gasped. 

In her memories, she had always pictured herself as young, yet the person who gazed back at her was no youth.  Crows feet marred the corners of her eyes and thin, permanent lines creased the skin around her mouth. Her sandy hair, she was dismayed to find, was liberally streaked with grey. Silmariën ran her fingers over her face and hair.  Her family aged slowly.  How many years had passed since her first visit to Valinor and what had she been doing all of that time?

Hands shaking, she slowly placed the mirror back on the desk.  At the last moment she took the lock picks and jammed them into the top of her boot.  The sharp ends bit into her skin, but she doubted she would have to walk much further.  Taking a deep breath, she prepared to meet her fate.

Eonwë was waiting for her, his face serene as always.  He seemed to be in exactly the same spot he had been in when she had entered the tent.  She briefly wondered if he was, in fact, a statue that only came to life when someone was there to see him.  If her mind hadn’t been buzzing with so many other questions, she might have asked him.

‘You are ready?  There is food and drink if you require it.’

Silmariën looked past him.  Someone had set up a small table.  Fruits, cheeses and bread were arranged on small platters around a silver table setting.  The ghost of a smile crossed her face when she recognized that the entire setting was fashioned of mithril.  She should have been hungry; she had barely eaten since setting foot on the mainland of Valinor.  Yet when she looked at the food, her stomach tightened into a painful knot. 

‘I think I’d just like something to drink, thank-you,’ she said. 

To her amazement, Eonwë himself poured liquid from a mithril pitcher into a mithril goblet and handed it to her.

She stared from the goblet to Eonwë and back again. 

‘Have you no thirst?’ he asked.

‘I am very thirsty, thank-you,’ she said, licking her dry lips.  ‘Only…’

Eonwë continued holding the goblet out to her.  He looked neither confused not upset.  His utter lack of expression was unnerving and yet, somehow familiar. 

‘Only.’ There was no inflection in his beautiful voice.

‘Only you are treating me like an honoured guest, which I did not expect. Thank-you,’ she said as she finally took the goblet from him.

‘You have been summoned,’ he said.

‘I know.  You’ve told me enough times.  I can remember that, at least,’ said Silmariën.  She sniffed the contents of the goblet cautiously.  It smelled of liquid sunshine.  ‘What is this?’

‘It is made by the First Born.  They seem to favour it.  I was told it is safe for your kind and that it may help with your condition.’

For some reason, this did nothing to reassure Silmariën. She took a tiny sip.  The beverage tasted of sweetness and light.  It seemed harmless enough, so she risked a larger sip.  No sooner had she swallowed it than a rush of memory engulfed her.

She had nearly drowned in the Long Lake and had been rescued and then nursed back to health by a tall, blond man named…Inglor.

Inglor.  Only he had not been mortal; but one of the First Born instead.

He had been her constant companion, both lightening the burden of loneliness while serving to make her aware of her utterly isolation. 

A series of images passed through her mind with lightning quickness; running for her life while a pack of Wargs howled behind her; Inglor walking beside her, droning on about some minutiae of history while she planned how to be rid of him; a single window lit by candlelight in a tower in Dorwinion; the stifling heat of the jungles of Far Harad; the pale, unclean light of a barrow; the wind whispering around the ruins of Annúminas; standing at the bottom of a pit, hardly daring to breathe, while a dragon moved about its lair; a palantir, blue and green sparks within its depths, spinning through the air; the burning pain in her fingers after hanging for hours over the edge of a bridge in Ithilien.  He had called her a different name: Haleth. It was a stolen name but that was somehow fitting.  She had helped herself to more than enough other things in her years of wandering; why not a name?  It certainly suited her better than Silmariën.

Her final memory was the concerned expression on Inglor’s face just before the poison robbed her of her senses. 

Inglor.  Where was Inglor? 

‘Inglor.  Eonwë, please, where is Inglor?’ she croaked as she returned to her senses.

To her horror, Eonwë was nowhere to be found. 

This is a work of fanfiction.  There is no intent to make any money from it. 

I would like to gratefully thank my beta readers, Aearwen and Ithryn for helping me to beat this into shape. As always, special thanks to Wenont for not allowing me to give up.

The sun was setting.  Hadn’t it been setting when she had entered the tent?  Haleth rubbed her forehead and attempted to clear her thoughts, but it proved impossible.

Where was Inglor?  Drat that elf anyways.  He was constantly offering her long-winded lectures of minutiae, but the moment she really needed an explanation he was nowhere to be found.  She looked around, half expecting him to appear and behave as though nothing untoward had happened.

It was probably just as well that she didn’t know where he was.  He had brought her here. As far as she was concerned, the entire predicament was his fault. 

Haleth’s blood froze.  What if the Valar blamed him for her presence in the Undying lands? What would they do to him?  Her Grandfather had surrendered his life for breaking the Ban.  Her entire country had disappeared beneath the waves in retribution for Ar-Pharazôn and his army attacking Aman.  Would Inglor’s fate be any less dire?

She had to find him.  They had to get away from Aman if it was the last thing they did.  The fact that it probably would be the last thing they ever did hardly mattered; the attempt had to be made. 

But where would she find him?  She drummed her fingers against her lips as she tried to think.  He had always claimed he was of the House of Finarfin.  Finarfin was the King of Tirion. 

What a fool she’d been!  She’d walked past Tirion, refusing a direct invitation to enter!  It was at least a day’s journey behind her. 

She would have to go back.  At least the white road would show her the way.

It would be foolish to go back through Valmar after ignoring the summons of the Valar.  The western gates stood open.  She would circle around the city walls until she found the white road.  She would have to keep hidden, which would slow her progress, but there was no help for it.  Once she got to Tirion, all she would have to do was to sneak into the city, find Inglor, release him, and get the two of them away from Aman. 

She rushed out of the gates of Valmar, already planning how she would enter Tirion without being noticed.

There was a vast green sward just outside of Valmar's gates.  A great number of intricately made chairs – they would have to be called them thrones – were arranged in a great circle upon it. A green mound rose in the centre of the thrones.

Haleth stopped dead in her tracks. That was the Hill of Ezellohar.  In her single-minded haste to rescue Inglor, she had stumbled into the Ring of Doom.  She cursed under her breath.  This was not the way to avoid the summons of the Valar.

She squinted at the thrones in the light of the setting sun. They all appeared reassuringly empty.  The city was behind her.  If she moved quickly enough, she could lose herself in the wide paths and gardens of Valmar. 

The sun dipped below the edge of the earth, leaving the world in twilight.  Haleth slowly backed towards the gates, hardly daring to breathe. The birdsong, while achingly beautiful, reminded her that she was no longer in Middle-earth. 

She had almost gained the gates!  Just two more steps and she would be within their stone bulk.

‘Silmariën of Eldalondë, you are summoned to the Ring of Doom.’ Eonwë’s voice rang through the clear twilight air.

Haleth’s heart sank.  To fail when she had been upon the brink of success left a bitter taste in her mouth.  She could still run.  They would inevitably catch her, but at least she would have tried. 

She made the mistake of looking at the Ring of Doom.  The thrones were now filled with majestic figures glowing with their own light. The Valar were taller than Men or Elves and terrible to look upon. At the very core of her being, Haleth knew she could never hope to escape.  She drew a deep breath to steady herself.  It was a wasted effort.  Her knees were trembling so badly that it was a wonder they could not be heard knocking together.

‘And so it ends here,’ she muttered to herself.  Poor Inglor.  He had thrown himself into great peril for nothing.  She focused upon putting one foot in front of the other without ignominiously falling onto her face and begging forgiveness.

Haleth had traversed the breadth of Eriador several times, but the walk into the Ring of Doom seemed endless.  Scattered shards of her memory returned to sting her; all of the failures and hollow victories; all of the mistakes and errors in judgement.  There were so many that they threatened to overwhelm her.  Squaring her shoulders, she deliberately put them all behind her and stepped forward to meet her fate.  

‘I am here,’ she said, her voice very small in the gathering darkness.  ‘I answer the summons.’  She stepped into the circle of thrones and stopped, uncertain of what to do.  She twisted her silver ring with such force that she might have unscrewed her finger from her hand.

Light shone from the faces of the Valar.  Their raiment glowed in the fading light of day.  Haleth noted this through quick, sidelong glances.  She had no desire to look directly upon them and so she stared at the green grass instead.  Hundreds of tiny white flowers were opening to their blossoms to the evening.  Their sweet fragrance filled the air with delicate perfume.

‘You must stand before Mandos,’ said Eonwë.

Even if she had wanted to – and she most certainly did not want to – Haleth could not comply with the demand.  She was not on a first name basis with any of the Valar and had no idea which of the solemn beings who sat upon the thrones was actually Námo.  She spun in a slow circle looking from one to the next. The Valier were female, so that ruled out half of the group.  She concentrated on the men instead.

She thought she recognized Oromë for a great horn rested by his side.  The Vala with the strong build and the slightly bored expression must be Tulkas.  The one with the hammer tucked into his belt would be Aulë.  Ulmo would certainly be the one with the seashells braided into his beard. 

All fourteen of them were watching her with unreadable expressions.  Haleth suddenly became aware of the passage of time. Her heart pounded in her chest.

The Vala garbed into sky blue had to be Manwë Sulimo.  She bowed her head and lowered her gaze as a sign of respect. 

That left two: Námo and Irmo, the Vëafantur, the spirits of fire.  Her eyes swiveled from one to the other.  They were seated next to each other.  Both were dark haired and grey eyed.  Both seemed stern.  Which one was which?  Námo was the greater of the two but they were both so far above anything Haleth had ever seen that it was impossible for her to judge which was the most majestic. 

Surely her Grandfather would have no trouble identifying which was which but she lacked his wisdom.  She sucked both lips into her mouth and chewed on them, wondering if Manwë would blast her with a lightning bolt if she guessed incorrectly.

At the moment, the lightning bolt would be quite welcome. 

Perhaps she could ask Eonwë for a hint without having to say anything. It was a faint hope, but it was all she had.  Haleth coughed and covered her mouth, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder in the direction of Eonwë’s voice. 

There came a sudden deep rumbling.  Haleth jumped, half expecting a rift to open in the ground before her and swallow her whole.  To her surprise, Ulmo was mimicking her and coughing into his hand.  She stared at him in surprise.  She had not thought the Valar would cough.  Ulmo was looking directly at her.  When he was certain he had her attention he bobbed his head to the right. 

Haleth blinked at him in bewilderment.  He leaned his head to the right and shook it emphatically.  Comprehension hit like the lightning bolt she had been anticipating and she flashed Vala of the Waters a genuine smile of gratitude.

The expression quickly faded to a worried frown as she stood before Mandos.  The span between the thrones seemed to have expanded for it took a great deal of time to traverse the distance, especially since her legs had taken on the consistency of jelly.  There would be no tricks this time; no miraculous escapes.  This was the end.  The only thing she could hope to do was to protect Inglor.

She stood before Námo and tried to hide her trembling.  ‘Well, here I am again where I should not be and it’s my fault. I take full, sole responsibility for my presence here.’ Námo, she decided, had interesting knees.  If one was to judge by the way they had seized her attention, they were the most captivating things she had ever seen.

‘Do you remember how you came to the Undying Lands this time?’  Mandos' voice was deep and surprisingly gentle.

Haleth opened her mouth, the lie already prepared.  But there was no use.  The Valar would certainly know the circumstance of her return.  ‘Not clearly, no,’ she said.  ‘I believe I was poisoned.’

‘You believe?’

‘It was suggested I was poisoned.  It was from a weapon.  It was my fault for getting in the way or not getting out of the way fast enough.  The important thing is that it was my fault,and I should bear the punishment alone,’ she said quickly.

‘That is not for you to decide.’

Haleth bit her lip.  The interview was not going well.

‘Do you remember your life?’

‘I do.  Mostly.  Although not in any particular order. The recollections are a little jumbled.’  

It was a vast understatement.  Her broken memories had returned but they had come back with no rhyme or reason.  Her mind was like a painting that had been torn into thousands of pieces and left scattered on the floor.

‘Do you recall what you said the last time you were here?’

Haleth’s face screwed up in concentration.  She desperately wanted to remember what she had said for it seemed an ill-advised thing to disagree with Námo. But the exact recollection was floating somewhere in a chaotic sea of memory and refused to come forth. 

She was about to admit defeat when it did return.  She had been standing in the almost exactly the same place.  In her confused state she might have mistaken the recollection for the present except first meeting had taken place when the sun had been in the sky.

She had stood before the Valar, her head held high, the blood pounding in her ears.  Her grandfather was dead, having willingly returned the gift of his life.  She knew she was dying; the Ban of the Valar had not been set only to protect the Blessed Realm against the Second Born but to protect the Second Born themselves.  There was some quality to the place that made it impossible for mortals to live for any length of time.  

Their mission had ended in worse than failure.  All of the brave sailors who had set out from Rómenna were dead.  Silmariën was dying; she could feel the life draining out of her with each passing moment.  But she was young, her life burned strongly within her. The emotions of the occasion were easy to recall: anger, fear and fresh grief for her Grandfather mixed with a very bitter cup.  In spite of all she and her Grandfather had told them of the suffering of the Faithful in Numenor, in spite of the humility and the pleading, the Valar had refused to come to their aid. 

‘But you are the Valar, the Powers of Arda.  Sauron is one of your people. Surely there is something you can do?’ she exclaimed in desperation. ‘You helped before, in the Elder Days,’ she said. Part of her marveled at her own bravado, the other part, the part that knew she was dying anyways, knew there was nothing left to lose. ‘You sent an army to overthrow the Great Enemy in the North. Or will you not help because it is not the Elves in peril?’

'Second born, second best,' she said bitterly. It was a cheap shot and she knew it.  The Valar recognized the argument for what it was.  A quick glance at the assembled faces told her that her words had not swayed any of them.  If anything some of them appeared to be growing angry.

‘Then let me go.  If you refuse to do anything, I shall.’

The vision faded leaving a very embarrassed Haleth standing in the gathering dark in the Ring of Doom.

‘I…was…young,’ she said and immediately regretted the choice of words.  She was speaking to beings who had existed before Arda itself had been made.  From their point of view, the eldest of the Firstborn were young. If she had been planning to acquit herself better in this encounter with the Valar, she was doing a very bad job.

‘I beg your forgiveness for my rash words,’ she said, blushing to the roots of her hair and all too aware that she was not helping Inglor in the least.

‘It was not the first time we stood accused of unconscionable inaction.’  Námo’s words rang through her mind.

Haleth flinched.  The interview was every bit as bad as the original had been except that time she had intended to be insulting.  This time she was managing it inadvertently.  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder curious to see of Manwë was pointing a lightning bolt between her shoulders.

‘Look at me, child,’ said Námo.

Once again Haleth fixed her attention upon his knees.

‘At my face, child, not at my shins,’ he said.

Slowly and with more reluctance than she had felt in her life, Haleth raised her gaze to look upon the face of Námo.  She expected to him to be stern or even angry; she certainly would not have blamed him.  Instead of anger, his face shone with gentle compassion. 

‘In the time you were given, what have you done?’ he asked.

‘I – found things,’ she said.  It was a ridiculous answer but she was too overwhelmed to describe her activities any other way. 

‘And once you found them, what did you do with them?’ he asked.

‘I brought them to Círdan, usually,’ she said. 

‘Usually?’

‘There were things that I lost through accident or clumsiness,’ she admitted, thinking of the palantir.  The single sentence was hopelessly inadequate to describe the entire adventure but she had the impression the Valar already knew the full tale.  ‘I am sorry.  I am at fault for all of the failures,’ she said quickly, thinking of Inglor.

‘You are very quick to deal out blame,’ said Námo. 

Haleth shifted nervously.

‘You rendered a service to us, whether you take the blame for that or not your choice.  You have laboured long and hard but the time of your travails is at an end.  What would you now?’

‘I do not understand,’ she said. 

‘You have crossed the Sundering Seas.  There is no way back to Middle-earth.  What would you now?’

It took all of Haleth’s self control to not scream in confusion.  It was not so much the question as the circumstances under which it was posed that confounded her. If she was not smashed to jelly by a troll or eaten by a wolf first, she had fully expected to end her days in bitter loneliness in the emptiness of Eriador. Yet here she was, unexpectedly in the Undying Lands, unable to remember how she had gotten there. The chaos of her restored memory was not helping.  What had the Vala just mentioned?  That there was no way back to Middle-earth.  She was trapped in Valinor which meant, like the last time, that she was dying

She should have been terrified, but a sense of peace descended upon her. Her family was dead and her country gone.  Who knew how much time had passed since she had marched, all alone, against the might of Numenor? Even if she could return to Middle-earth, there was nowhere for her to go.    

The weight of the years pressed upon her shoulders, gently pushing her towards her decision.  ‘Is Amandil’s body still tended in Lorien?’ she asked.

‘It is.’ This came from Irmo.

It was suddenly all so clear.  The Valar were giving her a choice; she could reject their request and die anyways or she could accept her fate graciously and help Inglor. 

A wave of relief washed over her.  For the first time since she had awakened in Elrond’s home, her thoughts were clear. She would do as her forefathers had done and willingly return the gift of her life to the One who had granted it to her. There was no point in fighting against the inevitable.  It would only rob her of what little dignity she had left. If she gave up her life without a fuss, it would make things easier for Inglor.  She thought of him sadly.  He would understand; at least she hoped he would understand in time. The Undying Lands were no place for a mortal.

‘I would ask that my body may rest beside that of my grandfather,’ she said.

She expected Námo to smile upon her choice, so she was quite disappointed and alarmed to discover that he was frowning.  ‘You believe you are dying,’ he said.

‘I’m not?’ she asked.

Námo shook his head.

The sense of peace evaporated. ‘But…how can I not be dying?’ she asked, furious.  ‘I was certainly dying the last time I was here. I was sure I was dying!’  What sort of game were the Valar playing?  She knew she should be dying.  She had resigned herself to the fact, determined to save Inglor.  Now that she was ready to die, they refused to allow it?

‘We cannot order any of the Second Born to return their gift,’ said a soft, feminine voice.  Haleth cringed, certain the Valar had heard her thoughts.

‘You’re not telling me to! I’m saying that I’m ready to!’ cried Haleth.  She looked from face to face, desperate.

‘Perhaps the one who caused this situation should be the one to explain,’ someone eventually said.

Eonwë, who had been standing impassively behind Manwë’s throne, called in a loud voice.  ‘Inglor of the House of Finarfin, you are summoned to stand before the Valar in the Ring of Doom.’

Inglor!  Haleth’s breath caught in her throat as the blond elf shuffled into place.  To say he looked terrible would be a woeful understatement.  His head hung down, tangled hair obscuring his features.  The light that usually shone emanated from him was practically extinguished.

‘Inglor?’  Haleth breathed.  Where had he been all this time and why had he chosen to appear now?  She rushed to his side and took his hand.  ‘What happened to you?’ she whispered.  He winced and would not meet her gaze. Heavy dark circles lay beneath his eyes.

‘I answer the summons,’ he mumbled. 

Eonwë’s voice rolled across the Ring. ‘Inglor of the House of Finarfin, you have been summoned to explain your actions…’

Haleth did not wait for Eonwë to finish.  ‘No. No! Whatever it is, whatever happened, it is my fault.’   She dared to raise her gaze to meet Námo’s.

‘Do you know what has happened, child?’ he asked softly.

‘Not exactly, no,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m still certain it is my fault.’

‘Hush, Haleth. This is not the time,’ Inglor took her hands and squeezed them.

‘To explain your actions regarding this woman.’  Eonwë finished as though there had been no interruption.

Inglor took at deep breath and began to speak.  ‘We had just completed the ship to take us West when we were attacked by Corsairs.’

‘Us?’ echoed Haleth weakly, certain she had heard incorrectly.  The months of frustration and despair returned to her.

‘Yes, us,’ he said quietly before continuing in a louder voice.  ‘We almost succeeded in avoiding them entirely, but Haleth was wounded by an arrow.’

‘What do you mean us?’ Haleth demanded.  ‘You never said us!  You said…’

‘Of course I meant us.  Did you think I could leave you in Middle-earth?  You are far too dangerous.’

In any other circumstances, Haleth would have hit him, but it was unlikely the Valar would approve and it would only show that Inglor was right.

‘The wound was most grievous?’

‘It was,’ said Inglor while Haleth seethed beside him.

‘Is this true?’

‘The wound was poisoned,’ said Haleth. This much, at least, she remembered.

‘She was dying.  I had no choice,’ said Inglor.

‘You had no choice but to take the decision from her?’

‘I must beg your pardon, but it was not her decision to make,’ said Inglor.

‘What decision?’ Haleth wondered silently.

‘Because she was poisoned and unable to communicate?’

‘No.  Because she gave the choice to me of her own free will,’ said Inglor.

‘What choice?’ demanded Haleth, unable to keep her silence any longer.  Inglor winced, looked away and said nothing.

‘In your delirious state you were given limpë to drink.’  It sounded very ominous.  Haleth desperately wished she knew what limpë was. In all of her wanderings, she had never come across it.  Inglor might have mentioned it when he had been droning on and on.  She wished she had paid more attention.

‘When did she give this to you?’

‘When we first met,’ Inglor said, finally looking at Haleth.  ‘In the Long Lake in Middle-earth.’

‘Is this true?’

‘I don’t remember,’ said a thoroughly confused Haleth.  It seemed safer than admitting she had no clue what they were talking about.

‘I saved her from drowning.  She gave her life to me,’ said Inglor.

Námo turned to Haleth, who was too dumbfounded to protest. ‘Is this true?’

‘I…I don’t know,’ she said stupidly.

‘When was the first time you met Inglor?’ a female voice asked.

Haleth combed through the shards of her shattered memory.

‘It was on the shores of Esgaroth,’ she said.  ‘He claimed he had saved me from drowning.’

‘Claimed? Do you harbour no recollection of the exact circumstances?’

Haleth looked helplessly at Inglor.

‘You had the Black Arrow in your hand,’ he said.

‘It must be her memory, not yours.’

Haleth closed her eyes and cast about for the exact recollection.  The waters of the lake had been freezing cold.  Her lungs had burned with a searing fire for want of air.  Her struggles to regain the surface had grown weaker and weaker as the cold sapped her strength.  She had resigned herself to her fate when a glowing figure had approached her.  She had spoken to it.

‘He is correct,’ she said, opening her eyes.  ‘I surrendered my life to him.’

There was a collective intake of breath. 

Námo turned to Inglor.

‘Very well.  The deed is done.  There is nothing that can undo it.’

‘Excuse me, but what, exactly, has been done to me?’ asked Haleth.

‘You were give limpë.  It is not surprising you have not heard of it for the secret was closely guarded from the Second Born. A draught of limpë grants a mortal the fate of the First Born.’ 

Haleth gasped.  Her Gift, just when she had finally come to appreciate it, was gone.  All of the ages of the world hung before her.  She was sundered from her kindred, trapped in a place, however beautiful, where she would never belong.  The enormity of her situation drove her to her knees, her breath coming in strangled sobs.

Inglor was immediately by her side, enfolding her in his arms.

‘Forgive me, Haleth.  Please forgive me.’

‘Why did you do this?  Why? How could you?’ she screamed in her mind.  Her hands balled into fists.  It was all she could do to not beat him or at least push him away.

With a supreme effort she controlled her temper.  It was too late for hysterics and it would hardly change her fate.  It could, however, make her present situation far more difficult. 

Inglor was beside himself. He was trembling as he rocked them back and forth, begging her for forgiveness. Haleth not never believed him capable of this level of emotion.

‘Never mind, Inglor,’ she said, pulling away from him and absently noting the thrones were empty once more.  ‘It will simply take some time to adjust,’ she said with a wry smile.

Inglor smiled with genuine relief and held her close to him once more. ‘Take all the time you need,’ he said softly.

‘I certainly have enough of that,’ thought Haleth bitterly as she rested her head against on his shoulder. 

A/N.  Limpë is not my creation.  As everything else in this story, it belongs to JRR Tolkien and is mentioned in the Book of Lost Tales I, The Chaining of Melko.  

A great clashing of sound shattered Haleth’s sleep.  She leapt to her feet, reflexively searching the knife strapped to her wrist. To her shock, the blade was missing.

There was no enemy to be seen in the dim light.  The only person in the area seemed to be Inglor.  He was lying on his side, his head propped on his hand, watching her wild alarm with mild curiosity.

She had no memory of where they were, why she was wearing borrowed clothing or, most importantly, where her knives had gone. She would have asked Inglor but the noise, which she now recognized as the ringing of many sweet bells, prevented conversation.  There was nothing for it but to wait until the music stopped.  If the enthusiasm of the ringing, tolling and pealing were any indication, it would be some time. 

Haleth glared at the city walls, the stone a muted grey in the deep morning twilight.  When that had no appreciable effect on the level of noise, she glared at her surroundings instead. 

A circle of dark, regularly spaced forms loomed to the west.  They were suspiciously chair-shaped.

The events of the previous evening returned and Haleth slowly sank to the ground, overwhelmed.

‘The bells of Valmar greet the return of Anor,’ said Inglor as the clanging tapered off enough for him to be heard.

‘The Valar do not seem to approve of slugabeds,’ said Haleth dryly.

Inglor’s face took on an expression of mild bewilderment.  It was so heartbreakingly normal that Haleth was almost moved to embrace him even as she prepared for the inevitable question.

‘There are no slugs in Valinor.  In any case, why would anyone want to put slugs into their bed?’

‘It’s an expression of speech, Inglor.  It refers to those who would rather remain asleep in bed long after the sun rises and everyone else is about their day,’ she said, smiling in spite of her exasperation.

‘The Valar do not sleep,’ said Inglor.  He sat up with one swift, graceful movement. ‘Nor do any of the Ainur.’

‘But the elves sleep,’ said Haleth.  ‘Surely there must be one who would rather stay in bed in the early morning hours.’

‘Possibly,’ Inglor said.  ‘Although those who chose to remain in bed beyond the rising of the sun tend to have company.’

A very shocked Haleth examined him from the corner of her eye.  Had just he insinuated what she thought he had just insinuated?  He seemed as innocent and unconcerned as ever, his far-seeing eyes gazing across the landscape.  Before last night she would have dismissed the idea out of hand.  Now she was no longer so confident. 

‘There are no slugs in Valinor?’ she asked to change the subject.

‘None what to speak of. It was quite surprising to discover them,’ he said.  If he was disappointed by the turn the conversation had taken he gave no sign of it.

Haleth nodded in silent agreement and cast about for something intelligent to say. ‘I imagine the gardens in Valinor do not suffer from their absence.’

‘It is said nothing in Valinor suffers,’ he said.

It was an interesting choice of words and, now that she had so much time, one that Haleth knew she should ponder.

The pondering would have to wait. The demands of her body were commanding all of her attention. The talk of gardens had reminded her of food.  ‘Do you suppose one of those insufferable gardens has something edible in it?’ she asked.

‘Why do you ask?’ wondered Inglor.

‘I’m hungry?’ said Haleth.

‘Oh,’ said Inglor. 

Haleth marveled at his economy of communication.  In one, short syllable he had managed to convey a bewildering combination of confusion and disappointment.  If she had been less hungry, she would have been offended.

‘Shall we go to Valmar?  Or do the Ainur not eat?’ she asked as she began to make her way towards the city gates. 

‘The courts of Yavanna are filled with every fruit known to Arda,’ he said as he fell into step with her. 

‘Will she be angry if we take some?’ asked Haleth.

‘Why would she be angry?  The fruits are hers, yes, but they are gifts meant to be eaten,’ said Inglor.

‘Half a moment,’ Haleth mumbled as they entered the western gates of Valmar.  The tent she had used the day before was still there.  She ducked through the flap to retrieve her belongings. There were many useful things stored in the hidden pockets of her clothing and she had no intention of leaving them behind.  She hesitated before picking up her knives.  Were weapons allowed in Valinor? 

Presumably they permitted.  Eonwë must have known of her blades and he had allowed her to carry them this far.  If nothing else, she would need an eating knife. The throwing knives could be passed off as utensils.  Besides, she had not practiced with them since she had awakened on Tol Eressëa.  Now that she had recovered her health, she would have time to work with them again.

Time.  All of the long ages of the world opened before her mind’s eye. 

Haleth hurriedly collected the rest of the things and fled into the morning light, nearly bumping into Inglor who was waiting just outside of the tent.

‘Are you well?’ he asked, taking in her wild-eyed expression.

‘Yes.  I’m fine,’ she lied, adjusting her burden to keep from dropping it.

‘Allow me to help you with those,’ he said. Before Haleth could object, he relieved her of her knives and old clothing and placed them in his pack.

She was still frowning when he completed his task.

‘Are you certain you are well?’ he asked.

‘I don’t recognize any of the birds songs,’ she said, hoping it would lead to a lecture on all the types of birds in Valinor.

‘The change can be disconcerting,’ he said with surprising sympathy.

‘It’s going to take some time for me to grow accustomed to this place,’ Haleth sighed.  In truth, she doubted she would ever be accustomed to it. That, she realized, was thinking in mortal terms.  Surely somewhere down the centuries she would come to accept Valinor as her home.  Eventually her memories of Middle-earth would fade and what was now so alien would become normal.  A lump rose in her throat.  

‘If you wish to learn, you must begin with the language,’ said Inglor in Quenyan.

Haleth groaned and rolled her eyes.

‘It is the language of Tirion and that will be your new home.’

Haleth stopped dead in her tracks and glared at him. 

‘That’s odd,’ she said, deliberately using Westron. ‘I don’t remember Mandos or anyone else telling me I had to live in Tirion.’   Inglor seemed to be making an awful lot of decisions for her.  It seemed to be becoming a bad habit.

‘Your family is there,’ he said.

‘There’s only one member of my family here, Inglor. As he is dead, he is beyond caring where I live,’ she snapped.

‘No,’ said Inglor, shaking his head, ‘You have a number of relations in Tirion.  I have heard they are most anxious to meet you.”

Haleth’s stomach growled loudly.

‘It’s too bad none of them thought to bring us breakfast,’ she said.

‘Shall we search out the Courts of Yavanna?’ Inglor asked, switching back to Quenyan.  He gallantly offered Haleth his arm while she tried to puzzle out what he had said.

‘I guess,’ she said with very bad grace, placing her hand upon his.

No one challenged them as they passed along the wide boulevards of Valmar This surprised Haleth, for any guards worth their salt would certainly have questioned them.  They looked anything but reputable; an elf in dirty clothing and a formerly mortal woman wearing a borrowed gown with overly long sleeves and a pair of moth-eaten boots.

Strangely, no one seemed to mind their unkempt appearance. As they wandered the wide, tree-lined avenues, passersby paid them little more than polite, sidelong attention.   Haleth found this odd but Inglor appeared to take no notice of it. As he knew more of this place than she did, she would just follow his example.

The city had an air of tranquility that bordered on sleepy.  The few pedestrians they saw proceeded at a slow, stately pace and frequently paused to admire one of the many fountains, statues or gardens.  Aside from the bell towers where the bells tolled at irregular, apparently random intervals, there were no visible structures. 

‘This place seems more of a garden or park than a city,’ Haleth said as they crossed a slender bridge that spanned a gurgling rill.  At least that is what she tried to say.  As she had spoken in Quenyan, the results were less than successful.

‘It is somewhat different in Tirion,’ said Inglor after several minutes spent puzzling out her comment.  He launched into a detailed description and quickly lost Haleth in a maze of unfamiliar names and half understood words.

She left him to drone on, lost in her own confused thoughts, deliberately using her own language in her mind.  What galled her the most was that Inglor was, as usual, perfectly correct.  She would need to learn Quenyan.  That and High Quenyan were the languages of Aman.  If she wanted to communicate, she would have to become fluent in one, the other, or both.

Unless she went to Alqualondë, in which case she would need to learn Telerin as well.

She consoled herself with the thought that Telerin should not be that difficult to learn.  It had some similarities to Sindarin. She believed she had recognized a few of the words spoken by the sailors who had brought her from Tol Eressëa.  Maybe she should move to Alqualondë instead of Tirion.  The idea was not without its appeal.  The Teleri loved the water and Haleth had been raised beside the sea.  It might be pleasant to live on the ocean and sail again.  Every day.  For the rest of eternity.

The vast gulf of purposeless future gaped before her. 

She deliberately pushed it aside.  It was far easier to think of other, more immediate matters like an empty stomach.

‘Are we nearly there?’ she asked, interrupting Inglor’s Quenya monologue.

‘Yes,’ he said, gracefully extending his arm to indicate a grove of trees.

Haleth gaped at them, resentment and hunger momentarily forgotten.

The trees in that grove were truly ancient, their trunks as wide as pillars, their branches uplifted towards the sky. It appeared they were standing in a green-roofed hall rather than a forest. The variety was overwhelming.  There were peach trees and pears and several types of fruit that Haleth could not name.  Each tree bore blossom, young and ripe fruit, all at the same time with no regard for the season and the air was heavy with the sweet scent of flowers.

‘Amazing,’ she breathed as she passed beneath the trees, staring into the branches.

A flash of brilliant red caught her eye.

‘Yavannamirë!’ she exclaimed. 

She grasped Inglor’s arm and pulled him until they stood beneath a venerable tree with globular, red fruit.

‘I haven’t seen one since I was a child!’ she cried. ‘There was a tree in my mother’s garden.  It was her pride and joy. Every year my brother and I would climb it and eat until we could barely move. We would always be punished and we would always do the same the following year until…’

‘Until?’ asked Inglor gently.

‘Until we couldn’t,’ she said, smiling wistfully.

‘Its fruit would make a passable meal, then?’ asked Inglor. 

‘Passable?’ snorted Haleth. ‘One would make a breakfast fit for a king.’

She ran to the trunk and attempted to climb it.  Her knee immediately became tangled in her skirts.

‘I wish I was wearing my own clothes.  I’d forgotten how difficult it is to climb in a dress,’ she said.

‘Then I shall climb for you,’ said Inglor gallantly. Before Haleth could comment he was in the lower branches.  She watched him in awe.  It could have been a trick of the dappled shadows but is seemed as though the tree itself was pushing him upwards.

‘Hold out your hands,’ he called from somewhere above, invisible amid the leaves. 

With a great deal of doubt – the fruit was sure to hit a branch on the way down – Haleth held out her hands.  A vermilion yavannamirë fruit instantly dropped into it.  She held it up to examine it more closely.  It was huge; the size of her two fists and far larger than the walnut-sized fruit of her mother’s garden.  It was also the most perfect yavannamirë fruit she had ever seen, round and beautifully ripe.  It seemed to glow in the dappled light.  It almost seemed a crime to eat it.

‘Here’s another,’ he called. 

She had to scramble to catch the second fruit as it plummeted downwards.

‘That should be enough, Inglor,’ she called.  It would not be right to take any more than they needed and she doubted she would manage to finish even one before her stomach was filled.

An incomprehensible reply drifted down from the branches.

Haleth waited, squinting up at the trees.  When it became apparent that Inglor would not immediately return she sat down with her back against the tree trunk and contemplated the fruit. It would be bad manners to begin to eat before Inglor joined her, but the fruit was so perfect that she was sorely tempted to start without him.  Haleth had not stood on ceremony for many years.  She held the fruit to her nostrils and inhaled the sweet perfume.  Her mouth watered as her stomach clamoured to be filled. 

A tiny nibble, she decided, would not be such bad manners. She took the smallest bite she could, barely grazing the skin of the fruit with her teeth. The rich, sweet taste of the yavannamirë filled her mouth.

Manners would have to wait.

She took another bite, then another until her mouth was quite stuffed.  The grove around her was transformed.  She was an awkward, gangly child ineffectually hiding in the lower branches of her mother's yavannamirë tree, savouring the forbidden fruit.  There was a rustling above her; her brother, older and more agile, rested in the higher branches where she dared not go.  The wind rustled through the leaves and, almost at the edge of hearing, the sea waves broke upon the shore.

'Silmariën!'

Haleth’s jaw stopped mid-chew.  She had been caught doing something she had been specifically told not to do.  There would be consequences and they would not be pleasant.  Her father, for all that he was noble, did not believe in cossetting his children, especially when they were disobedient.

With a jolt that was almost audible, Haleth returned to the present.  Her mouth was moist with the juices of the fruit. Leaping to her feet, she wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve while surreptitiously thrusting the fruit behind her and attempting to look innocent.  The expression only made her appear all the more guilty.

A tall, slim, dark haired elf woman speaking rapid-fire Quenya was approaching.  Beyond her old name, Haleth could not understand a single word.

'Inglor!' she cried as she backed away from the onslaught, 'I thought you said no one would mind if I ate this fruit!'  Her escape was halted by the tree trunk.

The elf woman stood before Haleth.  She appeared quite young, no older than thirty summers, except for her grey eyes which burned with a fever of excitement.  She brought up her hand.  Haleth flinched away from the touch but the elf woman firmly took hold of her chin and pulled her around to examine her better.

'No one minds,' Inglor said from directly above her.  He gracefully landed beside them. 'This is Lady Anairë, the wife of Lord Nolofinwë whom you call Fingolfin.  She has come to greet you.'

Lady Anairë was examining Haleth carefully, turning her head from side to side to take in all of her features.  Gentle fingers caressed the skin at the corners of her eyes.  She seemed especially fascinated by the hair at Haleth's temples.

'That is very flattering, thank-you,' Haleth said, her face blazing at Anairë’s intense inspection. 'But why would such an august person be interested in me?'

'Because you are one of the only members of her family to ever return from the Outer Lands,' said Inglor softly.

'Family?' Haleth echoed.

'You are a descendant of Elros, are you not?'

'Well, yes, but...' Haleth began.  It had always been a matter of great pride to be descended from Númenor’s first king.  His father had been Eärendil whose mother was Idril, the daughter of Turgon, the King of Gondolin and the son of Fingolfin.  She blinked in surprise.

When Inglor had said she had family in Tirion, she had assumed he was wrong.  It had never occurred to her that it might be a distant ancestress.

Haleth was suddenly painfully aware of the shortcomings of her appearance.  She had not brushed her hair since the night before.  Her clothing was rumpled and her face likely as not smeared with the red juice of the yavannamirë fruit.

'Lady Anairë,' she said, curtseying as she had been taught so many years ago.  She reflexively smoothed her dress, leaving a trail of red streaks down the fabric.

It hardly seemed to matter to Anairë.  She took Haleth into her arms and crushed her against her.  'My child.  Welcome home.'

Haleth aimlessly wandered the halls of Lady Anairë’s home; although home seemed an overly modest term to describe the palatial residence.  It wasn’t so much the size of the place, although it was impressively large, as the richness of the materials with which is was built and decorated.  The walls and floor were a polished marble that glowed in the starlight.  There were many windows, and each seemed to open onto the garden or a wonderful view of the streets.  Soft breezes scented with flowers wafted through the corridors, keeping the building pleasantly cool even on the warmest of days.  The place was filled with priceless treasures; sculptures and tapestries and paintings that had been fashioned by the greatest craftsmen of the Noldor before they had marched to Middle-earth, all of them displayed to their best advantage and arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner. 

As well, the Lady Anairë was routinely accompanied by a dozen well-born ladies, all of whom were beautiful, graceful and ageless. 

Haleth felt shabby and hopelessly out of place among such wondrous company.  She had taken to roaming the halls to avoid people.  It still left the priceless artifacts, but those were somewhat easier to ignore.  When she stopped moving, all of the ages of purposeless existence hung before her.

Haleth’s inability to sit still contrasted starkly to Lady Anairë, who could remain motionless for hours. Haleth often wondered if Anairë’s stillness was related to her great age.  It begged the question: would Haleth would be as calm and still after several thousand years.  The prospect alone was enough to fuel hours of prowling through the large home and all of its memories.

To add to her unease, her sleep was troubled by nightmares.  One particularly disconcerting set of dreams featured a bad-tempered individual with a ruddy complexion.  She would awaken from these dreams in a cold sweat, unsure whether it was a flight of unpleasant fancy or a memory.  Somehow, she knew, her association with this individual had been Inglor’s fault.

In fact, everything was Inglor’s fault.  If he had let nature take its course, she wouldn’t be here, wondering what to do with herself for the rest of eternity.

Haleth was so full of self-pity that she did not hear Lady Anairë and her entourage until it was too late to hide or run in the other direction.  They swept around the corner in a tide of silk and lace while Haleth scuttled out of their way.

‘Silmariën, I am so pleased to see you.  My ladies and I were going to weave.  Perhaps you would care to join us?’ 

Haleth had to admire Lady Anairë’s diplomatic skills; she sounded genuinely happy to have chanced upon her mangy foundling. 

‘I…would…be…delighted,’ said Haleth, extremely slowly. She had not yet attained full mastery of Quenya. In fact, she could barely express herself. 

She planned to ease her way to the back of the crowd, hoping to escape when no one was paying attention.  Lady Anairë must have guessed her intentions for she took Haleth by the arm, forcing her to walk by her side.  Behind them, the women whispered and giggled among themselves.  Haleth felt the blush rising from the base of her throat. 

‘They do not speak ill of you,’ Lady Anairë whispered in Sindarin.

Haleth stared straight ahead. The heat upon her face intensified; had her thoughts been that obvious? ‘I never said…’ she began.

‘Here we are.’  They stepped into the room where the weaving was done.  The space was filled with looms of various sizes and design.  Shelves groaning with yarn and bolts of fabric ran along three walls.  Large, open windows overlooking Lady Anairë’s private garden dominated the fourth side of the room. 

The ladies quickly arranged themselves and commenced work, either weaving or embroidery while Haleth edged towards the door.

‘Do you weave, Silmariën?’ Lady Anairë asked before Haleth could make good her escape.

‘I did,’ Haleth replied in halting Quenya.  ‘But it has been many years.’

‘A skill, once mastered, never fades.  I myself did not weave for decades, yet when I sat at the loom once more, all of the knowledge returned,’ said Lady Anairë. ‘Histëalë did not approach a loom for centuries, yet her weaving is the most sought after in all of the Tirion. Is that not true, Histëalë?’ 

The woman seated next to Anairë shrugged dismissively.  With her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, she looked out of place amid the women with long, flowing locks and artfully arranged curls.  A pang of kinship assailed Haleth; here was someone who did not take pains to be beautiful.  Haleth was no longer utterly careless of her appearance but she would never approach the beauty of the Elves.  Here at last was someone who did not aspire to be the fairest of them all.

The sense of affinity remained until she got a good look at the loom upon which Histëalë worked.  Haleth had seem looms of many shapes, sizes and design, but nothing could match the complexity of Histëalë’s loom.  There had to be thousands of multi-coloured warp threads stretched horizontally across it.  A good proportion of the threads glittered; they had to be metallic.  The loom itself was a bewildering arrangement of heddles, harnesses and pedals, yet Histëalë operated it with grace and speed, her hands a blur as she passed the shuttle back and forth through the sheds in an even rhythm.  

As Haleth watched, the tapestry seemed to stretch; soon it filled the room, enveloping her within its silken and metallic threads.  A deep thrumming passed over her head.  She winced and reflexively looked up to discover herself staring at the ceiling of Anairë’s workshop.

‘Would you care to work my loom?’ Anairë asked her.

Shaking her head to dispel the illusion, Haleth examined her benefactor’s weaving.  It was a fraction less complex in design than Histëalë’s.  The warp threads were the gleaming silver of the stars and the deep blue of the ocean.  An elaborate brocade glittered on the take up beam.  It was easy to imagine ruining the entire piece of material.

‘Maybe I could start with something simpler?’ Haleth suggested hesitantly.

‘Very well,’ said Anairë after a slight pause.  Haleth had the impression her ancestress was wondering what could be simpler than a brocade of blue silk and threads of sterling silver.  ‘Did you have anything in mind?’

‘What about a potholder?’ Haleth suggested.  Her Quenya must have been good enough to be comprehensible for several women laughed.  Anairë hushed them with a disapproving glance.

‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable using a vertical loom?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Haleth, who would have felt more comfortable wandering the streets of Umbar dressed in a dancing girl’s outfit. 

‘There are several over there,’ said Anairë, pointing to the opposite end of the room.  ‘Sárawen will help you to find the threads and the tools you will need.’

A woman dressed in deep red leapt to her feet and indicated for Haleth to follow her. Haleth, taking care to not drag her feet overly much, followed her. 

‘Will this one do?’ asked Sárawen as she pointed to a vertical loom of refreshingly simple design. 

‘It should,’ said Haleth, determined to keep her communication as short and to the point as possible.

‘Good.  Now we shall need yarn.’  Sárawen led Haleth to the shelves of supplies. 

Haleth perused the spools.  There were delicate shades of every colour of the rainbow in various weights of wool, linen and silk as well as a wide variety of silver, gold and copper threads.  She ignored the metallic threads and searched up and down the shelves for something plain and relatively coarse so that no one would mind when it was wasted. 

‘This would be nice,’ said Sárawen, holding out a silken yarn dyed forest green. 

‘I was hoping for something a little less…’ Haleth groped for the proper word.  There were too many to chose from.  Thin sprang to mind, for the yarn was as fine as silk.  Pretty was another appropriate description. 

‘It will be fine.  It will contrast well with your hair,’ said Sárawen, brushing aside Haleth’s objections.  ‘Now for something that will bring out the highlights; gold or, perhaps copper,’ she said as she thoughtfully examined Haleth’s hair.

‘I was thinking of something plainer and coarser.  Iron would do.  The grey and rust would match my hair perfectly,’ Haleth snapped in Westron.

‘Silmariën,’ said Anairë. 

Haleth glanced at her ancestress.  She doubted Anairë had understood what she had said but the tone of her voice had left little doubt to her mood.  Sárawen looked from Anairë to Haleth and back again.

‘The threads do not match her eyes,’ offered Histëalë, not bothering to look up from her work.

‘Something the colour of rotting meat should do,’ snapped Haleth, still in her own language.

‘She should find her own plants, make her own dyes and spin her own yarn,’ Histëalë continued.

‘This is simply for practice,’ said Anairë, ending the debate.  ‘Silmariën, choose whichever threads that catch your eye.  There will be more than enough time for you to learn the rest later.’

Haleth turned away, disappointed.  The idea of roaming the countryside in search of plants had sounded very appealing, and not only because it would get her away from the looms.  It chafed at her spirit to be confined indoors, even in a place as grand of Lady Anairë’s home in the fair city of Tirion.  ‘The green yarn is fine.’

Sárawen led her to one of the empty upright looms.  Haleth examined it with a sigh.  The warp threads would still be too numerous and close together for her liking, but at least the operation of the thing would be fairly straightforward.  With another deep sigh, she began stringing the loom with the green yarn. 

The distance between the top and bottom of the frame seemed to grow longer as she worked.  Her arms were aching by the time she was done.  She paused for a moment before threading the shuttle and plucked at the warp threads. 

As she had suspected, some were too tight while others were too loose. Sighing in frustration, she began the slow process of adjusting the threads to make the tension even.   Once finished, she plucked at the yarn to test her work. Much to her disgust, the threads, although uniform, were now all too tight.  Face burning, she glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching the debacle.  Fortunately, the others were entirely focused upon their own work.  Except for an occasional, muted comments, the only sound was the clacking of the moving heddles, the whisper of the shuttles and the thud as the reeds battened the growing bolts of fabric. 

The room had grown oppressively hot.  Droplets of sweat formed on Haleth’s forehead and upper lip.  She wiped them away as she loosened the warp threads.  It was embarrassing enough that she couldn’t string a loom; she was the only one in the room who perspired. 

After what seemed like an age, she finally had the warp strings adjusted to her liking.  The tension was not perfect, but she deemed it was adequate.  She stood up, placed both hands on her back and stretched.  Hours of alternating between squatting and standing had left her back and legs very, very stiff.

‘I think that should be enough for one day,’ Lady Anairë said.

Haleth looked around in surprise.  Except for her formidable ancestress, there was no one else in the room.

‘The others left hours ago,’ Anairë said to her questioning expression. ‘You seemed so engrossed in your work that I deemed it unnecessary to disturb you. You may continue another day.’

Haleth bit her tongue to keep it still.  ‘Yes, Lady Anairë,’ she said, while silently wishing she could throw the loom out of a window.  The room, she was surprised to note, was quite dim.  The evening light lingered in Valinor, but even that was fading to twilight.

It was even darker in the corridor.  The crystals that lit the hallways had been uncovered.  Haleth’s stomach reminded her that it had not been fed since early in the morning.

‘You are not happy at the loom,’ said Lady Anairë as she glided soundlessly up the hall.

Haleth opened her mouth to deny it, then thought better of it, worried that she might be set to work at one of the truly complex looms.  ‘It is not my favourite activity,’ she said dryly.

‘Isfin never enjoyed it, either.  She much preferred to be out of doors, to ride and hunt with her cousins,’ said Anairë.  There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice that Haleth had never heard before.  ‘I indulged her.  Perhaps it would have been better if I had insisted on keeping her closer to me.’  She trailed off. 

For an instant her calm mask slipped aside and Haleth saw the mother and wife who, after millennia of separation, still grieved for her family.  Not knowing how the gesture would be accepted, she placed her hand upon Anairë’s shoulder.  ‘If I could, I would find her for you,’ she said gruffly.

‘Find her? I know where she is, child.  She is in Mandos along with her brothers and father.  In time, she will return to me, as will the others, once their hurts have been healed.’  She squeezed Haleth’s hand.  ‘In the meantime, at least one of my family has returned to the Blessed Realm.’

Feeling utterly inadequate, Haleth swallowed hard and nodded.  ‘You should visit with Master Elrond.  His blood is much closer to yours than mine.’

‘I shall, in time,’ said Anairë. 

‘I could go with you,’ Haleth said eagerly.

‘You are restless,’ said Anairë. 

Haleth was unsure if it was meant as an observation or an accusation.  ‘It is the way of the Secondborn,’ she said with a shrug.  ‘Our time here is limited.’

‘But that is no longer true not for you,’ said Anairë.

Haleth winced and looked away.

‘This does not please you?’ Anairë sounded puzzled. 

Haleth could not blame Anairë for being bewildered; the entire situation made no sense to Haleth and she was deeply and personally involved.  The confusion did nothing to improve her mood.  All of her buried resentment bubbled to the surface.

‘It is done.  It cannot be undone,’ she said with a shrug.

‘And you are not pleased by this turn of events?’

Haleth had no answer.  To agree would be tantamount to saying she wanted to die and this was not the case.  Yet the prospect of living amid the perfection of Valinor for all of the ages of Arda held no appeal, either.  She did not want to exist in a place where she would never belong, especially when she was so much the Elves’ inferior.  ‘No one asked my opinion. It hardly matters whether it pleases me or not,’ she finally said.

Haleth viciously kicked an innocent pebble with the toe of her moth-eaten boot.  The small white stone rolled off the ornamental pathway and stopped in the perfectly kept grass.  It shone there, white upon green, glaringly out of place.

She could sympathize with it except that a gardener or Lady Anairë herself would soon be along to put it back where it belonged.  Unlike the displaced pebble, there was nowhere for Haleth to fit in.

Haleth’s first few weeks in Tirion had not been easy. To make matters worse, she found it impossible to point to an exact reason for her discontent.  Everything was perfect.  It was never too hot or too cold, she never went hungry and she slept in a comfortable bed.  She should be happy; how many times had she wished for a safe place to sleep and enough food? But reality was far less sweet than the dream.  The fact that she didn’t deserve her good fortune made the situation all the worse.  

There had been a slow but steady stream of visitors to Anairë’s home; all interested in meeting, or at least seeing Anairë’s descendent.  And while they had all been polite and restrained, Haleth could not help but feel like an exotic animal on display. She supposed she should be thankful they did not poke at her, although in a way it would have been a relief; it would have justified her resentment.  Drat the Elves and their good manners anyways!

She picked up another pebble and tossed it into a fountain.  The act of defiance did not make her feel the least bit better so she fished it out, soaking her sleeve up to the shoulder, and placed it back on the path. 

Her own sour mood annoyed her. She should be grateful and she knew it.  Anairë had been kind and generous to her, more so than she'd had a right to expect given the distance of their kinship. 

Anairë and all of the elves were beautiful and ageless.  They moved with a natural grace that made Haleth a lumbering bear.  Each and every one of them was talented and capable.  Compared to them, Haleth with her wrinkles and greying hair, was completely inadequate. She felt ashamed of habouring such feelings and dared not speak of them.   

If only she had something purposeful to do it might not seem so bad.  But there was nothing to find in Aman, which left her with a great deal of time to do nothing but brood over her inadequacies.

'Excuse me, is Lady Anairë at home?'

Haleth jumped and whirled about.  A tall Noldo stood on the path; his footfalls had been so light that she had not noticed him until he spoke. His hair was dark and his eyes grey but what truly captured Haleth's attention is that he had addressed her in Sindarin. Oddly accented Sindarin, but Sindarin never the less.

'I am sorry but she is not at home at the moment.  May I give her a message?' she asked. 

The elf regarded her solemnly.  Haleth hoped he would stay or at least dictate a long message.  It was an incredible relief to speak a language she knew well.

'Forgive my presumption, but are you the Lady Silmariën?' he asked.

'Haleth,' she said. 'I prefer to be known as Haleth. And yes, that is me.'

He looked thoughtful. 'I knew the Haladin. You have some of their look about you.'

'Oh,' was all Haleth could say.  It was exceedingly awkward meeting people who had known her distant ancestors. Nothing in polite or otherwise company had prepared her for it and she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to it.

'But I am remiss in my manners for I have not introduced myself.  I am Ecthelion of the Fountain.'  He inclined his head politely.

'Ecthelion,' Haleth echoed thoughtfully.  The name was familiar.

'Of old I was one of the captains of Gondolin,' he said.

'Of course! The other Balro....I mean the Balrog Slayer!' she exclaimed and instantly slammed her mouth shut and felt foolish.    

'You have heard of me, then?' he asked lightly.

'Oh, yes,' she said.  It had not been a happy tale.  Ecthelion had drowned in a fountain while battling Gothmog, the captain of Morgoth's balrogs, during the fall of Gondolin. His memory had been overshadowed by Glorfindel, who had also perished while fighting a balrog.  Glorfindel’s sacrifice had touched her family more closely and his deeds had never faded from the minds of the descendents of Elros.  But many incredible feats had been done that day.  To reduce Ecthelion to the other balrog slayer was beyond rude.

'Why is your sleeve wet?  Have you dropped something in the water?' he asked.

'No!' cried Haleth, terrified he would volunteer to jump into the fountain to retrieve it.  She glanced at her dripping wet sleeve. 'I mean yes but I got it out again so please don't trouble yourself.'

Ecthelion was watching her closely.  Haleth could not be certain for she found the subdued expressions of the older elves extremely difficult to read, but he seemed to be shaking with barely restrained laughter.

'Forgive me,' he said.  'I wanted to meet the descendent of Idril and my friends Tuor and Eärendil.'

'Oh,' said Haleth, looking away and feeling more inadequate than ever.

'Why are you so unhappy?' he asked.

'I....what?' she asked, shocked.  Since she had come to Valinor no one had commented upon her mood.  It had been a relief for Haleth knew she should have been glad of her fate and even happier to be accepted into the Blessed Realm. It was the height of ingratitude to be anything but happy, yet the lack of happiness could not be denied. Haleth, anxious to please, or at least not to disappoint overly much, had been trying her utmost to hide it.

'You look as though you want me to leave,' he said.

'No! Oh, I'm sorry.  I'm just not very good at getting my point across.' 

He said nothing, obviously expecting more from her.

‘That is, when I have a point to make,’ she said weakly, scuffing her toe on the ground. ‘Which I don’t seem to have in this case.’

'Tuor often complained of the same thing,' Ecthelion said.

‘He did?’ asked Haleth, her head snapping up. 

‘Did you imagine it would be an easy thing for him to live in a city of Elves?’ asked Ecthelion.

‘Well…but…he was raised by Elves, was he not?  He was familiar with their customs at least and their language?’ said Haleth.

‘Shall we be seated?’ Ecthelion asked, indicating a stone bench with an elegant sweep of his hand.  Haleth shrugged and sat on the very edge of the bench. 

‘Tuor was fostered by Elves, it is true, but he came of age in the wilderness.’  He gazed at the thin spire Mindon visible over the walls of Anairë’s garden.  ‘Gondolin was a far cry from the wilderness.’

‘It must have been,’ said Haleth, embarrassed at having to be reminded of her own family history.  Still, she was glad to hear Tuor had not been comfortable in Gondolin; it made her feel somewhat less guilty.

‘Tuor often complained that Gondolin was too small and the walls too constricting,’ said Ecthelion.  ‘He and I would often patrol the slopes around the city.  It was the place he was happiest, apart from the time he spent with Idril, of course. Haleth, would you explore the heights of the Calacirya with me?’

Haleth’s eyes grew round with surprise.  She had been wishing for an excuse to get out of the city and Ecthelion had unexpectedly offered her one.  At the same time she could envision the walls of the Calacirya falling inwards and burying her King and countrymen, the trembling of the earth, the screams of the dying, the white dust obscuring the scene like so much mist.

‘Forgive me, Lord Ecthelion, but the heights of the Calacirya are not safe for my kind,’ she said, shuddering.

‘How not safe?’ he asked.

‘They fell on my people.  I saw it,’ she said distantly.

It was Ecthelion’s turn to look surprised.

‘Then perhaps you would accompany me to the sea?’ he asked.

‘You would do that?’ asked Haleth, annoyed at the pathetic eagerness in her voice. 

‘Of course I would,’ he said. ‘Even High King Ingwë needs to breathe the air of Middle-earth from time to time.  If you are amenable to the idea, I shall arrange the details with Lady Anairë.’

A wide, lopsided grin spread across Haleth’s face.  The idea of being outside the walls of Anairë’s garden was appealing.  Ecthelion was right; she missed the freedom of the outside world.   

‘Thank-you, Lord Ecthelion, I would be quite amenable to it,’ she said.

*~*

‘Thank-you for attending to my concerns, Inglor,’ said Anairë.

‘It is a small thing,’ said Inglor. ‘And I have concerns of my own regarding Haleth.’

They were strolling through the streets of Tirion.  It was market day and there were many merchants in the square, their stalls set in neat, orderly rows upon the white cobbles.  The entire population of Tirion seemed to be gathered around the stalls.  Although the numbers slowly grew with each passing year as the Exiles were pardoned and those who had died returned from Mandos, the population was still but a shadow of its former numbers.

The shopping and bartering went on at a subdued, unhurried pace which Haleth, if she had been there to see it, would have found quite surreal.

‘I confess I had some concerns when Silmariën first came to stay with me, especially when you told me of her temperament,’ said Anairë.  ‘She is rather demonstrative of her moods, but apart from her reaction at our first meeting there have been no outbursts.’

‘Truly?’ asked Inglor as he stepped out of the way of a woman bearing a large sack over her shoulder. 

‘Truly. I had rather hoped she would be more forthcoming,’ said Anairë.

Inglor nodded to hide his inner alarm.  He had rarely dealt with a calm, collected Haleth but it had always led to disaster of one kind or another.

‘Perhaps she will be when she grows more comfortable with our customs and language,’ he suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ said Anairë.  Judging by the lowering of her brow, she did not find the prospect likely.

Inglor quickened his pace. ‘Has she done anything of industry since arriving in your household?’ he asked.

‘She attempted to weave, on my insistence. I decided it would be better to not insist again,’ said Anairë.  ‘There is no need for her to toil with her hands.’

‘The Second Born, like our people, require a task to keep them occupied.’  

Anairë considered this as they reached the end of the market square and entered a quiet street.

‘Can she sew?’ she asked.

‘Well enough, although not in the usual manner,’ said Inglor, thinking of Haleth’s shirts with the dozens of hidden interior pockets. ‘She has some skills with leather, particularly old leather.’

‘Yes, I have seen that,’ said Anairë who had caught Haleth repairing a hole in her ancient boots. 

‘She is not given to embellishment,’ said Inglor.

‘Not all of our people are, either,’ said Anairë.  ‘The Inwir eschew all decoration.’

‘True,’ Inglor agreed, although he found it difficult to compare Haleth’s preferred rustic taste in garments to the blindingly white robes of the Vanyar. 

They reached the courtyard of Anairë’s home to find Haleth pacing back and forth in the garden. 

‘Lady Anairë, Inglor, greetings!’ she called, rushing forth to meet them, her face wreathed in smiles.

Inglor sighed inwardly with relief.  This was something closer to the Haleth he knew.  It was quite gratifying to see her smile again.

‘Lord Ecthelion came to visit while you were out,’ she bubbled. 

A shadow passed over Inglor’s heart at the mention of Ecthelion of the Fountain. He was accounted among the heroes of the Elder Days with a fearsome reputation as a warrior.

‘I take it he introduced himself to you?’ asked Anairë.

‘Yes, he did and he told me of Tuor and Idril and all of the marvelous goings on in Gondolin,’ said Haleth.

Inglor was rather wounded at the revelation that the smiles had not been meant for him.

‘You must have had a very good conversation but look, Lord Inglor is here and he is our guest,’ said Anairë.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Haleth, suddenly subdued.  ‘Welcome, Lord Inglor. I trust you are well?’

‘Yes, Lady Silmariën,’ he replied, deliberately using her real name to annoy her.

Haleth’s eyes narrowed. 

‘Lord Ecthelion played the flute for me,’ she said.  ‘He is quite good.’

‘Yes, he does have some talent,’ Anairë agreed.  She thought it strange that Haleth was addressing her and yet looking at Inglor while she spoke.

‘He said he had a diamond set in his shield,’ she said, looking Inglor up and down as though she found his appearance wanting.  This surprised Anairë who did not find Inglor’s garb inadequate.

‘Ecthelion always had a taste for those gems,’ said Anairë.  This, she thought, must be a strange example of the emotional chaos Inglor had warned her of.  Although judging by the way his fists were clenched, Inglor was little better.

‘And he promised he would bring me to the sea, with your permission, of course,’ said Haleth with a smile that was more a show of bared teeth.  ‘You will grant your permission, will you not?’

Anairë hesitated.  Ecthelion was an old friend and follower of her son.  She had entrusted her own daughter to his care without qualm or hesitation.  Haleth obviously wanted to go; indeed, she gave the impression she would climb over the walls if permission were denied. 

‘Of course you may go,’ she said.

‘Splendid!’ cried Haleth.

‘Excuse me,’ said Inglor. To Anairë’s amazement, he disappeared into the house, closed the door behind him and let out a shout of wordless frustration.

Haleth adjusted her sleeves and stared at the door, willing Ecthelion to arrive.  The quiet house was dim in the early morning light while outside the window, the first rays of the sun gleamed upon the treetops.   

‘Silmariën, is that you?’  Anairë’s sounded mildly surprised as she entered the dining room.  Her tone was usually so even that Haleth knew she must be shocked. 

‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, without tearing her eyes away from the door.

‘Would you care to break your fast?’ asked Anairë, recovering her composure.

Haleth hesitated.  She supposed she should eat, but the prospect of being beyond the encircling walls of Anairë’s garden had her stomach in knots.  ‘I lack an appetite,’ she said, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar phrase.

‘Are you well?’ Anairë enquired.  The question was deceptively mild. Haleth turned to examine her ancestress.  Anairë, she knew, had learned something of the sicknesses that afflicted the Secondborn and it made her overly protective.  Swallowing a sip of water the wrong way had been enough to have her sent to bed and covered in a mountain of blankets.   If she thought Haleth was ailing, Anairë would never allow her to leave. 

‘I’m fine!’ Haleth cried, leaping to her feet.  ‘I think I’ve found my appetite after all.’

Anairë examined her closely.  The expression triggered an ancient memory of Haleth’s own mother’s skeptical face when she had insisted that she was not hurt or ill.  The vision was so vivid that, for an instant, Haleth was transported hundreds of leagues to the east and years into the past.  The walls of Anairë’s home became those of her own family abode.  Her mother’s features imposed themselves on Anairë’s face. 

The vision faded and Haleth sat down hard, clasping her hands to hide the trembling.

‘Silmariën?’

‘Fine.  I’m fine,’ Haleth said distantly.  ‘It was an old memory, nothing more,’ she added forcing a smile to her lips.

Anairë sat down beside her and took her hands.  ‘Those still trouble you?’ she asked gently.

‘I imagine they shall for some time,’ said Haleth as her heart fell to her toes.  There was no way Anairë would allow her to leave the house now.

‘You have too much time to brood,’ the elf woman said, patting Haleth’s ice-cold hands.  ‘An outing should help to remedy the situation.’

A large grin blossomed on Haleth’s face. 

‘But first you must eat,’ Anairë insisted.

Haleth’s response was drowned out by a firm knock upon the door.  Haleth burst from her seat and raced to open it. 

Ecthelion stood framed in the morning light.  ‘Good morrow,’ he said.

‘Hello!  Shall we be going?’ asked Haleth.

Ecthelion looked to Anairë for guidance.

‘Very well, Ecthelion, enjoy your day.  Please make certain she eats something,’ said Anairë, her voice laced with amusement.  ‘Until this evening, Silmariën.’

‘Until this evening, Lady Anairë,’ said Haleth, dropping a hasty curtsey.

  ~*~

Ecthelion strode up the white road that wound through the pass of Calacirya.  The wind tussled his dark hair and set his cloak fluttering like a heroic banner. 

Haleth, puffing alongside him, cut a far less impressive figure.  It was a familiar situation for Inglor had always eclipsed her in physical presence, but now even the landscape contrived to make her feel shabby.  The grass that grew upon the hillsides was lush and deep, emerald green.  Wildflowers spangled the turf, the delicate blossoms nodding gracefully in the wind that blew off the ocean.  Their sweet perfume filled the morning air. 

‘Are you weary?’ Ecthelion asked solicitously.

‘No,’ said Haleth shortly.  It was a bald-faced lie but Ecthelion had more tact than Inglor for he did not ask if all mortals wheezed like a leaky bellows.

‘Would you care to pause and break your fast?’ he asked.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Haleth, who was regretting all of the meals she had partaken of since her arrival in Tirion.

‘No.  I have broken my fast,’ he replied.

‘I shall wait until we reach the seashore,’ she said, picking up her pace and resolutely ignoring her rumbling stomach.  She turned her attention to her surroundings to distract herself.  The heights of the Pelori rose above green hills.  Clouds tore themselves to tatters upon the jagged peaks.  It seemed that more than the cloud was moving.  The entire side of the mountain was sliding towards them, threatening to entomb them for all of eternity.  There was no escape; nowhere to run.

‘Silmariën? Are you well?’ 

Haleth returned to the present to find herself crouched by the side of the road, her arms thrown above her head.  Ecthelion was bending over her, a concerned look upon his handsome face.  She glanced at the mountains and was surprised to discover they had not moved. 

‘Yes, I am well and please call me Haleth,’ she said with a feeble smile.

‘Perhaps we should return to Tirion.’

‘No!’ cried Haleth.  The prospect of returning to the confines of Anairë’s garden horrified her. ‘Please.  I would like to continue.’

He looked extremely unconvinced.  ‘I gave Lady Anairë my word to keep you safe.’

‘And so you have!  No harm has come to me.’

‘You do not seem to be physically damaged, but you are not well,’ he said, crossing his arms.  Haleth drew breath to speak but he raised his hand to forestall her protest. ‘I know your people.  I spent enough time in Tuor’s company to recognize the signs of distress.  You are no longer cowering but your countenance is pale. Something has troubled you.’

‘Memories,’ Haleth blurted.

The pronouncement brought Ecthelion up short.  ‘Memories?’ he echoed. 

‘Memories.  Bad ones.  Don’t you have any evil recollections?’ she snapped.

His eyes widened.  ‘Yes,’ he said gravely. 

Haleth would have struck herself in consternation except that it would further convince Ecthelion that she should be returned to Tirion.  She grasped his arm and pulled him in the direction of the ocean. ‘Would you tell me of Tuor?’

‘I did give my word,’ he said, allowing himself to be guided towards the ocean.  ‘One day the both of us were patrolling the Encircling Mountains when Tuor found something of interest.’

‘What did he find?’ asked Haleth eagerly.

‘A cave.  Only I do not believe he expected to find it.’

Haleth gave Ecthelion a sidelong glance and discovered him watching her with a merry gleam in his eye. 

‘Why do you say that he didn’t expect it?’ she asked because he plainly wanted her to.

‘My first hint was all of the muffled shouting.  My second was that all I could see of him was the one leg sticking out of the ground.’

Haleth burst out laughing but quickly slapped her hands over her mouth to cover her mirth.

‘Why do you stifle your laughter?’ Ecthelion asked. 

‘Tuor was a hero.  It’s disrespectful for me to laugh at him,’ she said.

He fixed her with an incredulous look.  ‘I cannot understand how that would be.  Tuor certainly laughed at himself,’ he said, shaking his head and chuckling.

‘What did you find in the cave?’ she asked, at ease once more.

‘Rocks, mainly.  Those and a curious, black and white animal that resembled a cat. It had the most interesting aroma.’

Haleth laughed again.  This time she made no effort to stop.

Ecthelion entertained her with stories for the rest of the walk.  Her sides were aching by the time they reached the ocean.  The Bay of Eldamar shone, its blue waters spangled by the sun.  An expanse of pure, white sand separated the ocean from the land.   The beach sparkled as much as the sea, but in many different colours. 

‘Beautiful, is it not?’ asked Ecthelion, taking a deep breath of air.

‘It is,’ agreed Haleth.  ‘It is the only place I have seen where the sand sparkles with so many colours.’

‘It is not the sand that sparkles,’ laughed Ecthelion, rummaging through his pack to pull out a blanket.  ‘There are gemstones on the beach.’

‘Gems?’ squeaked Haleth, too surprised to help him lay out the blanket.

‘My people gave them to the Teleri long ago to do as they would with them.  They found it pleasing to scatter the jewels upon the shore.’  He paused to admire the view.  ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Haleth, too flabbergasted to say more.  She had heard the stories of precious gems being scattered along the shore of the Bay of Eldamar.  She had assumed they were just that; stories. 

‘But after so many years, surely most of them have been washed out to sea,’ she said.

‘They have been washed out to sea.’

‘Then…do your people give more gems to replenish those that are lost?’ she asked, her eyes widening as she imagined a huge warehouse full of rubies, sapphires and emeralds.  Making jewels was something she might enjoy.

‘No,’ he laughed.  ‘There are those who seek the gems in the water and return them to their proper place.’

‘Oh,’ she said, crestfallen.  ‘So they find them and throw them back on the sand.’

‘No.  They find them and put them back in their proper place.’

Haleth examined the glittering beach.  There was a certain calculation in the way the gems were strewn.  ‘You can’t mean that each particular gem has it’s own particular place,’ she began.

‘That is exactly the way of it,’ he said. 

‘Oh,’ she said, stunned.  Aman, however beautiful, seemed more of a display than a place where people actually lived.  Small wonder the elves moved with such languid grace; they did not wish to displace or break anything.

‘You should break your fast,’ he said. 

‘Oh.  Yes. Thank-you,’ she said, blushing.  She was so taken with the beach and its gems that she had forgotten she was hungry.  Several pieces of dried meat, fruit and cheese had been arranged on the blanket.  Haleth stared at it.  She hadn’t seen the like since Lady Anairë had taken her under her wing. 

‘Is it not to your liking?’ Ecthelion asked. 

‘It’s very much to my liking.  It’s similar to the meals I ate while traveling in Middle-earth,’ she said, smiling.  ‘Except much better I’m sure,’ she added quickly.

‘Good!  I had hoped to provide something familiar.’

‘It is very familiar Ing…I mean Lord Ecthelion.  And it’s all the better because I didn’t have to gather or cook any of it first.  Thank-you!’ 

She bit into a piece of cheese.  Grains of sand crunched between her teeth. 

‘I am afraid the sand has gotten onto it,’ he said apologetically.

‘It adds flavour,’ she said.

Ecthelion stared at her, an apple poised at his mouth.  Haleth was terrified that she had insulted him, but before she could apologize he roared with laughter.

‘Now I am certain you are Tuor’s kin.  He would always say the same thing, no matter how burnt the food might be.’

‘Tuor burnt the food?’ Haleth asked quickly.  This was another thing that hadn’t been mentioned in the old stories. 

‘Not usually,’ said Ecthelion with a smile.  ‘There was, however, one occasion when he was rather badly distracted.’

Haleth leaned forward, her chin on her hand, to listen.  Ecthelion related several accounts of patrols gone wrong and humorous incidents among the Lords of Gondolin, laughing heartily.

‘Have mercy!  My stomach is aching!’ cried Haleth when he launched into what was sure to be a ridiculous anecdote involving Glorfindel, Rog and a lady’s misplaced slipper.

‘Forgive me.  It has been a very long time since I have had an appreciative audience for these tales.  I had forgotten the encouraging effect of laughter.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t tell me all of your funny stories at once?’ she suggested, holding her sides.   

‘True.  Humorous stories garner their greatest effect the first time they are told.  Still, it has been a very long time since I’ve heard anyone laugh so freely,’ he said wistfully.

Haleth was brought up short.  Was she doomed to lose her sense of humour as the centuries passed?  What of her other feelings?  Would time slowly grind her down, the way the water washes away a rock, until she became indifferent to everything around her?  The very idea repelled her.

Ecthelion produced a flute from his pack and played a merry tune while Haleth removed her boots, hiked up her skirts and waded into the bay.  The soft caress of the water was cool in the heat of the day.     

‘You are restless,’ Ecthelion observed from the beach.

Of course she was restless.  It was the first time in a long time that she had been allowed to roam freely.  It would be ungrateful to voice her thoughts, so she gave an elaborate shrug and asked,  ‘Was Tuor restless?’

‘We were all restless then,’ he said with a melancholy smile.

Haleth stared into the water.  The white sand gleamed through the ripples.  The elves of Tirion, who moved with slow grace, seemed the farthest thing from restless.

‘Do you find that difficult to believe?’ he asked.  Even with the distance between them she could see the twinkle in his eye.

She pursed her lips and shrugged.  Something colourful shimmered on the white, sandy sea bottom.  Without thinking she thrust her arm into the water.  Her hand closed around something smooth, hard and the size of a hen’s egg. 

‘Look at what I found!’ she cried, pulling the blood red gemstone from the water and holding it aloft in triumph.

‘Well done, but now your sleeve is wet.’ He sounded amused.  Haleth recalled that her sleeve had been soaking the first time they met.  

She shot him a look that expressed her profound lack of regret.  ‘It will dry before we reach Tirion,’ she said as she splashed to the shore. 

‘Look at it. It’s enormous,’ she breathed, holding the ruby up to the sun to better examine it.  It was flawless and easily twice as large as the biggest of its like in Middle-earth. 

‘It is fine if you have a taste for coloured gems.  I have always preferred the pure clarity of diamonds,’ he said, glancing at the ruby. 

‘Good,’ said Haleth absently.  She turned the ruby this way and that, mesmerized by the way the light played within its heart.

‘That stone may have been made by Fëanor himself.’  Ecthelion’s voice was so neutral that Haleth could not tell if this impressed or repelled him.

She sighed and lowered the gem.

‘Where does it go?’ she asked, offering it to him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.

‘You said all of these gems have their particular places.  Where does this one go?’

‘I know not, but those who care for the gems will find it and put it in its proper position.’   He took the gem, briefly examined the fire burning at its heart, then placed it upon the sand. 

Haleth sat down upon the blanket and stared at the waves.  The afternoon no longer seemed so free.

‘Tuor found it difficult to live among the Firstborn, too,’ Ecthelion said sympathetically.

Haleth opened her mouth to protest then closed it again.  ‘So you’ve said. I imagine Gondolin must have been quite a change after living in the wilderness for so long.’

‘That certainly contributed to his difficulty, but it was not the sole reason for it,’ he said, shaking his head.

Haleth shifted uncomfortably.  She had no wish to confide in Ecthelion, no matter how many funny stories he told. 

‘Initially, Lord Turgon strongly disapproved of Idril’s attraction to Tuor.  Did you know that?’

‘I…no.  The stories don’t mention it.’  An emerald and a beryl glittered on the sand.  Haleth traced circles around them with her fingers. 

‘The stories do not tell everything,’ he said.

‘So I have learned,’ she chuckled. 

A fleeting smile crossed Ecthelion’s face.  ‘You must understand, Lord Turgon loved Lady Idril to distraction; I am certain he only sought to spare her the grief that would inevitably come…’ he trailed off.

‘When Tuor died and left the Circles of the World,’ Haleth finished for him. 

‘Just so, yes,’ he said.

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the whispers of the waves upon the white shore.

‘It is not so bad as all that,’ Haleth mumbled, smoothing the sand with the palm of her hand. ‘Grief, even overwhelming grief, fades with time.’

‘For the Secondborn, perhaps; it may be tied to the nature of your Gift,’ Ecthelion said in a quiet voice. ‘It is not so for the Firstborn. We expect our family and friends to endure for all time. And when they do not…’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘I will not say that our grief is greater than yours but it is more enduring, simply because we are more enduring. If you loved someone, would you chose that path for them?’

‘No, but I cannot chose anyone’s path,’ she said.  ‘Not even my own,’ she thought with bitterness.

‘And that is what Lord Turgon came to understand of Idril and her love for Tuor.  He wanted to protect his daughter, but in the end he allowed her to go her own way.

‘Eärendil was brought forth by their union. And without Eärendil, the Great Enemy surely would have prevailed,’ he said distantly.  ‘Forgive me.  This part of the story does not touch me so nearly.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Haleth.  Ecthelion would have been in the Halls of Mandos by the time Eärendil made his famous voyage to beg help of the Powers.  The events were only a tale to him.

‘Yet Eärendil was not the first one to sail,’ Ecthelion murmured, his gaze locked upon the ocean.

‘He was not the last one, either. He was the only one who was successful,’ said Haleth.  The old bitterness at the Valar’s refusal to help was not as strong as it had been.

Ecthelion looked directly at her.  For a moment Haleth thought he would speak of her first, ill-fated visit to Aman.

‘It is said that both Tuor and Idril also sailed West.’ 

It was so different from what Haleth had been expecting him to say that all she could do was gape at him.

‘I’ve…heard those stories too,’ she finally said. ‘They never arrived?’

‘No.  They have never.’  Ecthelion stared across the water. ‘The way was closed.  It was far more treacherous then, before the end of the Elder Days, than it is now.  The mists of the Shadowy Seas shrouded the stars and the sun.  It is said that even a lodestone was of little use in those treacherous waters.  And if some lucky sailor chanced to make it through that barrier he encountered the Enchanted Isles.’

‘I know,’ said Haleth. ‘I take it no trace of them was ever found?’

‘No. None,’ he said.

‘Did you see Idril in Mandos?’ Haleth asked on a sudden inspiration.

‘No.  There are no social gatherings in Mandos’ Halls,’ he said, his voice distant. 

‘I didn’t expect there would be parties, but did you ever, at all, in all of your time there, see Idril Celebrindal or notice her presence?  If she died sailing to the West, she should have been in the Halls.’

Ecthelion scrubbed his hands through his hair. ‘Do you not believe I have asked myself the same question?’ he said. ‘Or, if I knew, that I would not tell you? No.  I have no recollection of Idril in the Halls of Mandos but then, I have little recollection of anyone else there, either.’

‘Could we ask Námo?  Or perhaps one of his aides?’

‘They would not deign to tell us,’ he said with a crooked smile.

‘Lady Anairë was quite pleased when you arrived,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Inglor mentioned as much, but I must be a very poor trade for Idril.’

‘That is not the way of things,’ he said, shaking his head.  ‘No one can trade one person with another.’ 

The melancholy in his voice made Haleth wonder whom he would have traded, if he could.  It would be rude to ask, so she said nothing.  The waves whispered upon the sand.  The sun was sinking into the west and the shadows cast by the Pelori stretched far out to sea.

Haleth climbed to her feet.  Ecthelion might be content to sit and watch the waves, but she had to move. 

Walking was difficult as her boots sunk into the soft sand. It took an extra effort to not tread upon the jewels.  They were beautiful, but now that she knew it was contrived, it seemed a stale, static beauty.  Tirion was much the same.  The streets shone with diamond dust and the buildings gleamed like living things in the moonlight, but many of the homes were devoid of life and the streets were half deserted.  How long would it take for those lost in the Elder Days to return to their homes, as Ecthelion had done?  And how would they behave when they did?  Was that strange sense of long-held grief what had driven Inglor to Middle-earth? 

Guilt stabbed at her when she thought of Inglor.  She had been purposely avoiding him, still angry at the choice he had made for her.  What had possessed him to do such a thing?  There was little point in dwelling on it as there was no way to undo it now.  All the same, she still wanted to shout at him for behaving the way he had.  She had agreed to accompany Ecthelion to annoy Inglor as much as to escape Tirion. 

The golden light of the sun streamed through the cleft of the Calacirya, turning the sea and the sand to gold flecked with gemstones. 

Haleth was seized by a desire to climb.  There had been a tower on her grandfather’s estate.  She had climbed to the top with him one day.  He had given her a spyglass and shown her where to look and she had seen the white towers of Avallonë.  Aman lacked horizons.  If she climbed high enough, would she be able to see beyond the white towers of Tol Eressëa in the clear air of Valinor?  Without a horizon would she see all the way back to Middle-earth? 

There was a ledge on the rock face that marked the western edge of the beach.  A light trail was worn into the side of the ridge, but she would have to walk back the way she had come to reach the beginning of it.  She squinted upwards.  The stone offered many hand and footholds and the sun would set before she could walk around and follow the path. 

Hiking her skirts into her belt, Haleth climbed the rock face.  It went well until she was just below the ledge, then the stone beneath her right hand crumbled.  She was reaching for another handhold when a strong hand fastened about her wrist and Ecthelion pulled her up the rest of the way.

‘Thank-you,’ she mumbled, rubbing her abused wrist.

‘There is Tol Eressëa,’ he said, pointing to the expanse of green amid the blue of the sea.  ‘And there,’ he said, sweeping his arm to the north and then to the south, ‘are the Enchanted Isles.’

Haleth followed the arc of his motion.  If she squinted she could see fragments of grey and green scattered in the ocean.  But what was that beyond Tol Eressëa, that dark speck right at the edge of her vision?  Her heart pounded in her chest.  Could that be, after all these years?  She leaned forward, eager to get a better view. 

‘Lord Ecthelion, do you see…?’  She lost her balance, pitching forward.  The beach seemed a very long way down.  Hopefully the sand would cushion some of the blow when she landed. The way her luck went, she would have several gemstones embedded in her flesh.

A strong hand caught her by the belt and pulled her from the brink of disaster.

‘You should be more careful,’ said Ecthelion sternly. 

‘Lord Ecthelion, do you see it?’ Haleth asked.

‘I see a woman who is amazingly calm about falling off a cliff,’ he said dryly.

‘Yes, yes, thank-you for saving me,’ Haleth said, waving her hand in dismissal.  ‘But look there, past Tol Eressëa.  Can you not see it?’

Keeping a firm grip on her belt, Ecthelion stared into the east while Haleth quivered with anticipation.   

‘I see a great mountain rising out of the sea,’ he finally said.

‘The Meneltarma!’ Haleth cried. 

‘Don’t you see?’ she asked to his questioning expression.  ‘The Meneltarma was the most sacred place upon the island of Númenor.  I thought it was drowned forever, but if you can see it…’ 

All of her strength drained away.  She would have sat down hard if Ecthelion had not kept a tight grasp on her belt.

‘Home,’ she whispered.  After all this time of believing, no, knowing it was gone beyond recall, there was Númenor, or at least a part of it, above the waves.  In that moment she would have gladly traded all of her immortal life to set foot upon that familiar shore one, last time. 

‘Yes,’ said Ecthelion, alarmed by her pale, shocked expression.  ‘I do believe I should bring you home now.’

Haleth stared uneasily at her reflection.  The dress had been made for her.  After weeks of tripping over her hem and barely being able to breathe for the tightness of the fabric across her chest, it should have been a relief to wear a garment that fit so well. 

Yet for all that it followed the contours of her body, for all that the spangles matched colour of her eyes, the ethereal dress felt wrong.  She snorted and turned this way and that, hoping to find some imperfection, but the dress was, of course, perfect.  Any flaw was her own. She had grown too accustomed to dressing as a person of no account, one who took pains to be inconspicuous. That transition, now that she could remember it, had been far less awkward.  Trousers and an oversized shirt riddled with hidden pockets offered an ease of movement that could never be equaled by any gown, no matter how soft the material or how beautiful the embellishment. 

She heaved a sigh of regret.  There would be no return to those days.  She was expected to behave respectably and going to the King’s table dressed like a common thief was not acceptable.

Besides, those days had been cold, uncomfortable and lonely.  Why should she want to return to them?  Common sense said that it was far better to be warm and sleep in a comfortable bed with no cares in the world.  

‘Silmariën, it is time to depart.  Are you prepared?’  Anairë’s voice drifted up from the main floor. 

‘One moment!’ Haleth called.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slowly pulled off her boots.  The worn leather was soft and familiar to the touch.  With another sigh of regret, she pushed the moth eaten boots under the bed and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers that matched the dress. 

Anairë and her attendants were waiting by the front door.  They made their way onto the street in a small procession with Anairë in the lead and Haleth lagging half a step behind. Curious elves turned to watch them.  Haleth put her head down, painfully aware of the polite scrutiny.

To Haleth’s relief, the elves of Anairë’s household kept up a constant, quiet chatter which spared her from having to speak.  She was grateful for this for she was still not comfortable with Quenya. 

The party crossed the square that lay at the foot of Mindon. Tall buildings of polished stone shone in the long, low rays of the evening sun.  The ground was paved in marble and diamond dust that sparkled like moonlight on newly fallen snow.  A fountain splashed merrily and the air was filled with the cloying scent of the evening blossoms.

The elves walked with quick, light steps.  Haleth was hard pressed to keep up with them.  It was bad enough that her footsteps were so much louder than the others’; she did not want to disgrace herself by losing her breath. All too soon they reached King Finarfin’s home.  The wide doors at the top of the grand staircase stood open and inviting. The sound of a fiddle drifted into the street. 

Haleth’s footsteps slowed at she mounted the stairs.  It wasn’t that far to the gates.  If she ran and kept to the shadows, she could be out of the city before darkness fell.

She was still planning her escape route when she entered door of the King’s home.  The ceiling soared to a vault high above.  A pair of staircases curved upwards and several corridors led into the depths of the house.  The King’s device, a straight-armed star of gold upon a white background, was displayed upon the far wall.  Haleth’s fingers twitched spasmodically as she studied it.  By the manner in which it glimmered, it had to have been made of precious metals and gems. 

‘Silmariën?’

Haleth jumped at the sound of the name.  Anairë’s concern was plain to see.  Haleth’s heart sank.  She had been so determined not to disgrace herself and here she had done exactly that before even reaching the party.

‘Please go in.  We shall be along shortly,’ Anairë said to her attendants.  She waited until they had disappeared down the corridor before turning to her descendant, a look of muted concern upon her face, and signaling Haleth to follow her into a small waiting room that branched from the main corridor.

‘Is the dress to your liking, Silmariën? Does it fit properly?’ Anairë asked.

‘Yes, My Lady. It fits perfectly,’ Haleth muttered.

‘Do the shoes pinch your feet?’ she asked.

‘No, My Lady,’ Haleth replied, forcing herself to smile.  She was giving the appearance of being ungrateful and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Anairë examined her, compassion in the depths of her grey eyes.  ‘You must feel as though you are on display,’ she said. 

‘No!’ exclaimed Haleth.  It was a bald-faced lie and the look on Anairë’s face left no doubt that she was aware of it.  ‘Well, yes,’ Haleth admitted, blushing and looking at her toes.  The unfamiliar slippers greeted her gaze.  She grimaced and stared at the carpet instead.

‘Haleth, I can only guess how difficult this must be for you.  I suspected you were not ready for court and I would not insist upon it if I did not feel it was necessary.’

‘Necessary?’ asked Haleth, genuinely confused.  Talking to people in Aman was like talking to Inglor.  Conversations never went in the expected direction.

‘The people are very curious about you,’ said Anairë as she placed her hand upon Haleth’s shoulder.  ‘Most have not seen the Secondborn in a very long time.’

Haleth flinched. ‘I don’t suppose they’re glad to have me here, considering what happened the last time the Secondborn visited Aman,’ she muttered.

‘The circumstances are not the same and the people are aware of this,’ said Anairë firmly.  ‘Besides,’ she said, squeezing Haleth’s shoulder.  ‘You were here then, as well, and your deeds are remembered.’

The memory of marching down Tuna, all by herself, flashed through Haleth’s mind.

‘Oh no,’ she groaned, rubbing her forehead. ‘I was young and very foolish.’

‘You are, perhaps, among those most likely to understand your impetuous nature,’ said Anairë sympathetically.  ‘And your bravery, no matter how foolhardy, has not been forgotten.

‘If you can face down all of Ar-Pharazôn’s army, surely you will not be intimidated by a group of courtiers,’ said Anairë as she grasped Haleth by the arm and ushered her towards the sound of the merrymaking.

‘But I sure I was going to die,’ moaned Haleth.

‘I can assure you that you shall survive the evening,’ said Anairë lightly.

A very unconvinced Haleth allowed herself to be led down the hallway.

Finarfin had chosen to host the gathering in a garden.  Tables set with golden services had been set among the flowerbeds.  A company of elves arrayed in their best finery drifted amid the statues and bushes. 

As Haleth watched, the cultivated garden and its carefully tended bushes faded.  The trees grew higher and the plants took on the unmistakable appearance of wildness that can only be found in a forest.  The assembled company glowed with their own light. Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, locked eyes with her across the glade. 

She gasped and drew backwards into the shadows.  How had he seen her? 

Then the forest was gone and she was once again standing in Finarfin’s garden in Tirion.  Anairë grasped her arm and Haleth was grateful for the support.  ‘Silmariën?’ 

‘Memory.  It was a memory,’ she wheezed. ‘It has passed.’

Anairë examined Haleth as though she expected her to faint. 

‘Very well,’ she said.  ‘It is time to present you to the King.’

‘Oh….’ whispered Haleth, who would have much preferred being fed to sharks.

Finarfin was speaking to a courtier.  He noticed Anairë approaching him and excused himself with an even-tempered smile. 

‘Your Majesty,’ Anairë said, bowing her head.  ‘It is good to see you this fine evening.’

‘It is good of you to attend, Lady Anairë,’ he said. 

Haleth was struck by how much his voice resembled Inglor’s.   She wondered if Inglor was somewhere amid the brightly garbed assembly.

‘If it pleases Your Majesty, I would like to present my descendent, Lady Silmariën.’

The King gallantly took her hand.  It seemed very warm.  Haleth retained just enough presence of mind to curtsy. 

‘Lady Silmariën, it is good to finally make your acquaintance,’ Finarfin said smoothly.

‘Thank-you, Your Majesty,’ said Haleth, still crouched politely before him.  If she stared at the ground long enough, perhaps he would let go. Haleth was accustomed to her wishes not being granted, so it hardly surprised her when Finarfin’s grip on her hand tightened to a band of steel.

‘It is my hope that you enjoy the evening,’ he said as he pulled her upright. His pleasant expression had not changed at all.

‘Thank-you, Your Majesty.  I am certain I shall,’ she replied.  To her immense relief, he released her and turned to Anairë.  ‘I have missed you at court, Lady Anairë.’ 

Haleth, recognizing the dismissal, edged away.  Her eyes darted around the garden, searching for an inconspicuous, empty place to station herself.   The courtiers regarded her curiously, but no one approached her.  After much hunting she located an unoccupied bench tucked behind a large floral arrangement.  Heaving a sigh of relief, she sat down and collected herself.

Past experience had made her extremely cautious of monarchs, but Finarfin did not seem overtly nasty.  Of course, neither had Ar-Pharazôn; at least at first.  She twisted the silver ring that Inglor had given her and told herself to not be foolish.  This was the Blessed Realm, not Númenor.  If she continued to allow her past to colour her present experiences, her life would be very unpleasant indeed.  But the tide of memory that had begun on Tol Eressëa had never lessened; if anything it had grown stronger.  A stark realization struck her; if she did not find some way to occupy herself, the memories would engulf her. 

Here she was, in Tirion in the Blessed Realm.  She had been granted immortality and she was going insane.  It was so ridiculous, it was enough to make her crow with laughter.  But she did not wish to embarrass Lady Anairë any more than she already had. 

Perhaps sharing her recollections would make them less powerful. Anairë was wise and sympathetic; she would understand.  But how would Haleth explain that she had known Anairë’s long dead husband?  Where was Inglor?  Haleth was certain he would not understand her ravings, but he would, at least, listen. 

‘Lady Silmariën?’

‘Haleth,’ she responded automatically before looking up to find a very confused courtier…or perhaps a servant for he was wearing a garment embroidered with the King’s device…standing before her. 

‘I apologize.  I was searching for Lady Silmariën,’ he said smoothly. 

‘I’m sorry.  I am Silmariën,’ said Haleth, her face burning.

‘The evening repast will soon be served.  If you could please follow me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course. Thank-you,’ she responded with a half-hearted smile.

She followed the servant into the main press of the gathering.  Anairë, she saw, was seated at the high table to the left side of the King.  A woman with silver hair sat at Finarfin’s right.  This must be the Queen, Eärwen.  

Haleth’s throat constricted.  Surely they would not seat her at the head table?  She was visible enough without being displayed in such a manner. 

To her immense relief, the liveried elf led her to the side table at the extreme right of the arrangement.   She mumbled her thanks as she sat down, only to be confronted by an incredible display of utensils. 

Haleth stared at the table in dismay.  A collection of glasses and goblets formed a bulwark between her and the as yet empty seat in front of her.  A welter of knives, forks and spoons, several picks and a few instruments whose use she could only guess at bracketed a stack of plates and bowls.  She held up one of the picks and examined it with professional interest.  The slim length of silver ended in a tapered, curled point.  It could prove useful for getting into interesting places where she wasn’t welcome.

‘Good evening,’ said a cultured feminine voice.

Haleth started and dropped the pick.  It landed on a golden plate with a crash that reverberated around the garden. 

‘Please forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.’

‘No.  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t expecting….I mean I didn’t hear…I mean there is nothing to forgive,’ stammered Haleth.  The newcomer, whose dark hair was covered in a net of diamonds, smiled politely. 

‘You must be Lady Silmariën.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Haleth.  What had given her away?  The wrinkles?  The grey hair? The general lack of grace?

‘I must ask your forgiveness again.  I have not introduced myself. I am Edellos, although you might find it easier to refer to me as Eldalotë.’

The Sindarin name was familiar.  Haleth made the appropriate polite noises while she scoured her patchwork memory.  Unsurprisingly, there was an enormous hole where Eldalotë might have been.

Eldalotë bent close to her.  ‘My husband and I are to be your dinner companions this evening.’

‘How delightful!’ said Haleth with a forced smile.

‘That is my hope,’ said Eldalotë, although she seemed anything but hopeful. She leaned closer to Haleth’s ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.  ‘I hope it is not too much of an imposition, but please do not expect scintillating conversation from him.’  She stopped and bit her lip.

Haleth could understand.  It must have been terribly disappointed to be invited to Finarfin’s dinner party only to discover yourself seated with a Secondborn.  ‘Of course not,’ she said, her face a careful blank.

Eldalotë took in her cold expression and grew even more agitated.  ‘No.  You do not understand.  He is but recently returned from Mandos and cannot yet tolerate such a crowd.’

‘Lady Eldalotë, please believe me when I say that I understand your husband and sympathize with him completely,’ said Haleth with great conviction.

Eldalotë held her gaze for a moment, then say down in the chair beside her. ‘Thank-you.  Inglor said you would understand, but I thought it would be best if I explained.’

‘Eldalotë?  There you are.  Please don’t run off…’ The speaker, a tall blond man, stopped and stared at Haleth.  His gaze flicked from her rounded ears to the grey hair at her temples and settled on her face. 

‘Husband!  I am so happy you found our table. Please allow me to introduce…’

‘I know you,’ he interrupted, looking directly at Haleth.

Haleth looked to Eldalotë in panic.  Although she could not put a name to him, he was unsettlingly familiar.

‘Dearest, you cannot possibly know Lady Silmariën.  She was born long after…’ she trailed off in dismay.

‘What Lady Eldalotë is attempting to say is that I was born upon the Isle of Númenor,’ said Haleth. 

‘Yes,’ said Eldalotë, giving Haleth a strange look. ‘Lady Silmariën, may I present my husband, Lord Angrod.’

Angrod?  Haleth tried to understand why Angrod would be familiar and drew the typical blank. 

Eldalotë took the seat beside Haleth while Angrod settled himself across from his wife. 

The food began to arrive.  Haleth waited until Eldalotë selected a utensil and mimicked her. 

Minstrels played upon harps and viols throughout the feast. The conversation was sparse, which was a relief to Haleth. She studied the crowd, searching for Inglor and found him dressed in livery, standing directly behind Finarfin as the King’s Champion.  She tried to catch his eye, but he was standing at stern attention. 

He still looked haggard.  Whatever was wrong, it even seemed to have affected the light that came from him.  Compared to the King, Queen and Lady Anairë, his light was different; less golden and more diffuse and somehow, now that she had a good view of him, clearer. 

Were elves supposed to do that? Did it happen when they were ill the way that mortals grew warm with fever? She had no idea. Eldalotë might be able to enlighten her, but it hardly seemed polite to ask about it. 

It was an immense relief when the last of the dishes and cutlery were cleared away. Haleth silently congratulated herself for using all of the proper utensils and not having an unpleasant exchange with her dinner companions.  Soon she would be able to escape to a dark corner without appearing rude.   

Angrod, who had been examining her with a puzzled expression the entire course of the meal, finally spoke again.  ‘Please forgive me for my earlier confusion, Lady…’

‘Haleth,’ she said without thinking.  Angrod’s expression changed from puzzled to knowing.   Haleth’s heart sank.  How could he know her?  What had she done?

‘I though your name was Silmariën?’ asked Eldalotë. 

‘It is,’ Haleth said quickly.  ‘But I prefer to be known as Haleth.’

‘I met Haleth when she passed through my lands,’ he said as Haleth stared at the table and twisted the stem of a goblet between her thumb and forefinger.

‘She must have led her people across your lands on their way to their new home,’ mumbled Haleth.

‘No, she was alone,’ he said.  ‘Well, not quite alone.  She was traveling in the company of Fëanor’s fourth son, Caranthir.’

Haleth blanched as a sliver of memory returned.  She had been searching for something; she could not remember what although she knew it had been vital.  Along the way she had taken up with an unpleasant person who had shouted, called her names and, in his own unpleasant way, protected her. She could clearly recall the way his face would flush when he screamed at her. 

‘Husband, perhaps you could attend me for a moment?’ Eldalotë said sharply.  She stood up and marched away.  Angrod followed in her wake, leaving a miserable Haleth alone. 

Angrod must be mistaken.  Eldalotë had warned her that he was still confused. There was no way he could have known her.  Logic said it was impossible, but in her heart she knew that Angrod was right. The vision of Caranthir’s angry, flushed face rose in her mind’s eye.  The vision sent a cold chill down her spine.  This memory was better left alone. 

Moving with deliberate slowness to hide her trembling, Haleth returned to her sanctuary on the bench behind the decorative vase of flowers and watched the gathered company. Finarfin’s court was a thing of beauty.  Silks and rich brocades were everywhere.  Deeply coloured gems sparkled in the lamplight.  The elves were graceful and ageless, their voices like music.  It was achingly beautiful with the assembled company and the sweet scent of the evening flowers drifting through the air. 

As she watched the courtiers moving about, Haleth was struck by the dearth of men.  Of those who had marched off to Middle-earth barely a handful had come home.  Even fewer of those who had experienced bodily death in the Elder Days had returned from Mandos.  It left a very large population of single women and ensured that any unmarried man who did find himself in Tirion was the centre of a great deal of feminine attention. There was Ecthelion, speaking to Lady Anairë while a crowd of beautiful maidens stood at a respectful distance, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge them. 

Haleth twisted her silver ring and wished the evening would end.

‘Good evening.’

The Sindarin greeting caught her by surprise.  Only by supreme effort did she not leap to her feet and whirl around. 

‘Hello, Inglor,’ she said, fighting a losing battle to keep the lopsided, miserable grin off her face.  ‘Would you care to join me?’

He gracefully lowered himself beside her.

‘You look well,’ Inglor said quietly.

‘You don’t,’ Haleth thought, taking in his tired, drawn expression and wondering what was troubling him. Her face betrayed her thoughts.

‘I trust you are enjoying life in Tirion?’ he asked stiffly.

Haleth narrowed her eyes and considered asking why she should enjoy it when he plainly did not.  But a direct approach never worked with Inglor.  It was time to try an indirect method. She would fail miserably the first thousand years, but if she was patient and kept trying, after a few millennia she might get the better of him. 

‘It is certainly more comfortable that it was on Middle-earth. Not nearly as interesting, but far more comfortable,’ she said.

The shadow of a frown crossed Inglor’s face. 

‘How have you been keeping yourself occupied?’ he asked.

‘Lady Anairë has been gracious enough to try to teach me how to weave,’ said Haleth.  She did not add that it had been an exercise in futility and frustration.  The experience had been all the worse under Lady Anairë’s patient but puzzled tutelage. Haleth guessed her ancestress wondered how any descendant of hers could be so hopelessly maladroit.

‘Did you enjoy your outing with Ecthelion?’ he asked.

The image of distant isle of Numenor rose unexpectedly in her mind followed by a tide of homesickness that threatened to pull her under. ‘It…was…fine’ she finally managed.   

Inglor regarded her from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised in question.

‘I wish you had been there,’ she said gruffly.  ‘I miss you, Inglor.’

Haleth frowned; she had sounded weak and needy, but for the first time since he had sat down Inglor looked at her directly, a weary smile on his face.

‘Nothing would please me more than to be in your company, but I have neglected my duties for a great deal of time.’

‘There seems to be a great deal of state business in Tirion.  Lady Anairë is often occupied with it,’ said Haleth.  ‘She constantly has visitors. I’m fairly certain most population of Tirion had passed through her doors in since I’ve arrived.’ 

‘Lady Anairë is an invaluable aid to the King.  The people, by and large, tend to themselves but occasionally there is need of mediation,’ said Inglor.

Haleth drew a deep breath and bit her tongue. It would take more than a little mediation to overcome any disagreement involving the Noldor.

‘The King does his best, but the demand can be larger than the time he has available.  His immediate family helps with the smaller disputes but we are so few.’  He stopped.  ‘It might have been overwhelming, especially in the early years of his reign, but for Lady Anairë and Lady Nerdanel.’

‘Where is the Lady Nerdanel?’ asked Haleth. Until this instant she had neither seen nor heard mention of Fëanor’s wife.

To her surprise, Inglor switched his gaze to the toes of his boots.  He looked as uncomfortable as she had ever seen him.

‘The Lady Nerdanel is with her father’s people in the house of Aulë,’ he said quietly.

There was something wrong, something shameful behind this admission.  Although Inglor had not told her anything of the situation Haleth thought she could guess the reason for it.  Nerdanel was the wife of Fëanor.  He and his sons – her sons -- had sworn an unspeakable oath, slaughtered the Teleri and led the Noldor to ruin.  No matter how she might labour to make amends, she would be guilty by association.  Haleth ground her teeth in frustrated sympathy. 

The conversation would only lead to a disagreement.  Swallowing the bitterness at the back of her throat, Haleth cast about for another, less inflammatory topic of discussion.

Lady Anairë was standing at the opposite side of the room, still speaking to Ecthelion. 

‘I’ve often wondered why Lady Anairë never remarried,’ Haleth said.

That certainly captured Inglor’s full attention.  He was staring at her as though she had just suggested they dance naked before Finarfin’s court.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he sputtered.

‘I’ve wondered why Lady Anairë never remarried,’ Haleth repeated, simultaneously amused, irritated and curious about his reaction.  ‘It certainly was common enough among my people.’

‘The Secondborn can take more than one spouse?’ asked Inglor.

‘Not at the same time!’ laughed Haleth.  ‘But if one dies before their time, why should the other be condemned to spend the rest of their life alone? That would be cruel indeed.’  

For the first time in the years she had known him, Haleth had rendered Inglor speechless.  He stared at her in utter dismay, the tips of his ears a delicate shade of pink. The effect would have been amusing if the reason for it had been less annoying.

‘Inglor, don’t look at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head!  Three thousand years is an unconscienceable amount of time to remain alone!  Elves do remarry, at least if the old stories are true.  Finwë certainly did!’

‘But Fingolfin may return one day.  Míriel refused to ever return from Mandos,’ Inglor said quickly.  He bowed his head and continued in a near whisper.  ‘And there are those who still say that if Finwë had borne his loss, the fate of his people would have been much less unhappy.’

Haleth was brought up short.  If Finwë had not remarried, Finarfin would never have been born and without Finarfin there would be no Inglor.

She edged closer and threaded her arm through his.

‘They’re wrong,’ she said with great conviction.

‘Whether they are or are not is of little consequence,’ said Inglor, covering her hand with his. ‘When the Firstborn are wed, they remain wed for all of the life of Arda.’  

All the life of Arda.  Somehow, that prospect didn’t seem that daunting with Inglor by her side. They sat without speaking, the music and conversation droning around them. Haleth was acutely aware of his hand over hers and of the warmth of his arm.  She was sorely tempted to place her head on his shoulder.

‘That is a very long time,’ she finally said, attempting to pull away. 

Inglor grunted and nodded.  Grasping her hand, he held it in place with gentle firmness. Sighing, she yielded to temptation and rested her head against his shoulder, savouring his nearness.  

‘There you are!’

A small crowd of women charged like an invading army around the flower arrangement, led by a woman with raven dark hair and flawless, snow white skin.  Inglor and Haleth jumped apart guiltily as the tide of silk and brocade converged upon them.

‘Inglor!  Why are you not dancing?  You have been away ever so long and there are few enough dance partners.  It is most unfair of you to sit in a corner and hide,’ the leader exclaimed, laughing as she scolded. She noticed Haleth lurking beside Inglor and was brought up short.

‘Oh. I am so sorry,’ she said apologetically.  ‘I did not realize…’

‘Not at all.  Inglor, why do you not go and dance?’ Haleth said in badly accented Quenya. 

If her words were garbled, their meaning was clear.  Inglor allowed himself to be pulled away while the women crowded around Haleth.  Three of them squashed next to her on the bench while the others gathered around to watch the dancing. 

Haleth wondered how obviously out of place she appeared in the midst of so much beauty.  With a mental sigh she dismissed the thought; it was becoming tiresome.  

The women did not seem in the least bothered by her appearance or even her presence.  They talked among themselves in quiet, amused voices, often laughing.  Haleth wished she could join in the conversation.  Despite weeks of immersion in the language she was far from comfortable in Quenya.  While she could manage private conversations, any situation involving more than one speaker left her baffled. 

Haleth located Inglor among the dancers.  The Elves moved through the complicated patterns of the dance with grace and perfect timing.  A memory stirred at the back of her mind.  She and her companions had danced around fires.  The music had been little more than a small harp, rough singing and the uneven clapping of hands.  The movements had been lumbering in comparison to the Elves, but there had been so much more passion in them. Life was sweeter when it would end. All of ages of the world yawned before her. Haleth doubted that she would ever manage to muster that much intensity ever again.  If only she could go home!

She shook her head and concentrated on Inglor instead.  Both he and the maiden dancing with him were laughing.  Haleth was struck by how well matched they were.  A familiar pang of jealousy shadowed her heart. It was just like the situation in Middle-earth; Inglor had attracted a great deal of feminine attention there, too.  It had always irritated Haleth, but looking at how beautiful the maiden was and how gracefully she moved, Haleth's annoyance faded.  She could never hope to compare herself to an Elvish maiden.  Inglor would be far better off with someone beautiful and graceful and who could make him laugh.

The maidens surrounding her broke into laughter.  Haleth wondered what had caused their mirth.  She wished she had a better understanding of Quenya. Effectively isolated and not wanting to think of her personal predicament, she considered what Inglor had just revealed of Elven culture.  She had to admit that he was correct.  It would be exceedingly awkward if Fingolfin returned from Mandos and discovered Lady Anairë married to someone else.

Out of sorts and feeling badly for Anairë, Haleth twisted her silver ring. No matter how many difficulties it might cause it was still unfair of Fingolfin to have left for over three thousand years while expecting his wife to wait for him.  Granted, he had likely not been planning to die when he set off for Middle-earth but three millennia was a terribly long time no matter which perspective she looked at it from; mortal or not.

And if the situation seemed unfair for Lady Anairë, how much more unfair was it for Lady Nerdanel?  At least Lady Anairë had retained the respect of her people; Lady Nerdanel had effectively been exiled.

Elvish society had always been held up as the ideal but Haleth was discovering it could be just as bad as mortal society.  At least the mortals had the honesty to admit they were less than perfect. Haleth sighed in frustration and then noticed that the conversation around her had stopped. She glanced about and, to her chagrin, discovered everyone watching her.

‘I’m sorry?’ she said.  It must be bad manners to sigh in public.  She wished someone would inform her of these things before she made a fool of herself.

‘I apologise. I did not speak clearly,’ said the woman sitting next to her.  With dark hair and grey eyes she was beyond beautiful.  Haleth had known several kings who would have gone to war to have her as queen.

Haleth smiled cautiously and waited for the question to be repeated.

‘We noticed your ring and we were wondering what your intended was like,’ the woman said, speaking very slowly and very clearly while pointing to the band of silver on Haleth’s index finger. 

‘My…what?’ asked Haleth, who wasn’t clear on the Quenya word for betroathed.

‘The one who gave you that ring as a promise of marriage.  What manner of man was he?’

‘He must have been brave if half of what we have heard of you is true,’ said a second woman.

‘I have heard that mortal men are quite strong,’ said a third.

‘Strong enough, I guess,’ said Haleth distantly as another memory revealed itself. Inglor had given her the ring.  She could clearly recall the night in Dale when he had pressed it upon her.  She had been hurt and angry, he had been incandescently furious and they had been engaged only he hadn’t bothered to actually inform her of what she was accepting.

The colour drained from her face as the horror of the full implications of that tiny band of silver set in, especially now that she shared the fate of the Firstborn. 

One man.  One voice.  Droning in her ear.  Until she died. 

‘Except I won’t!’ she wailed in her own language.

She stumbled to her feet and fled the hall.

A confused group of maidens watched her lurch away. 

‘What do you think she said?’ asked the first.

‘I do not know.  She was speaking her own tongue,’ said another.

‘I told you the subject would upset her,’ a third said to the rest.  ‘He has likely passed from the Circles of the World.’

They nodded sagely, each of them familiar with the loss of loved ones.

Finarfin, the High King of the Noldor, was not experiencing the best of days.

An ambassador from the Teleri stood before him, radiating subtle anger and waiting impatiently for a response that would satisfy him.  It was easy to understand the reason for his fury; the Teleri were quite sensitive to anything untoward happening to one of their prized possessions. 

‘The ship has been retrieved?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said the Telerin ambassador shortly.

‘And there was no damage to it,’ he said.

‘No.  But the fact that it was taken at all is an outrage. Nothing like this has happened since the dark days,’ said the Telerin ambassador.

Finarfin grew angry at the mention of the Kinslaying.  While it was true that the Teleri had suffered terribly at the hands of the Noldor it was also true that no amount of restitution would ever be sufficient to earn their forgiveness.  Even the slightest disagreement between Tirion and Alqualondë would see the Kinslaying dragged forth, even though those directly responsible were still in Mandos.  As a wise ruler Finarfin would often allow them to prevail but after seven thousand years of blaming all the Noldor, even those with no blood on their hands, the argument was growing rather stale.

A good diplomat, he knew better than to let his irritation show.

‘But you did retrieve the ship,’ he said.

‘Only after days of searching for it.  It took three ships and six sailors to capture the thief,’ said the ambassador.

‘And were any of them hurt?’ asked Finarfin.

‘Not that they will admit,’ said the ambassador stiffly.

‘You have an undamaged ship as well as the person who took it,’ said Finarfin.

‘I have every confidence that you will deal with him.’

‘Forgive me but it is a her.’

‘Very well,’ continued Finarfin, frowning at the interruption.  ‘I have every confidence that you will deal with her in the manner you see fit.’

‘She is the Secondborn woman brought here by your kinsman,’ said the ambassador triumphantly. 

Finarfin steepled his fingers and leaned against the back of his throne.  This was an unpleasant twist to the situation.  There was no doubt that the mortal woman was prone to doing wild things; her past actions had proven that.  There was also no doubt that, as a member of his family had brought her to the Blessed Realm, Finarfin was ultimately responsible for her.

‘My dear, old friend I can well understand the reason for your distress.  Tirion and Alqualondë have long been joined by bonds of blood and friendship.  Surely we will not allow this slight misunderstanding to come between us.’

Hours of delicate negotiations later the Secondborn woman stood before Finarfin’s throne. 

He examined her with thoughtful consideration.  She would never pass for one of his people. Her features fit together well enough but her skin and hair were showing the unmistakable signs of the weariness that was the fate of the Secondborn.  There were creases at the corner of her eyes and the hair at her temples was distinctly grey, the iron strands contrasting with the sandy coloured tresses. 

She was standing ramrod upright and staring at an indeterminate point over his left shoulder, her expression blank as she waited for him to pass judgement.

‘I would walk in the garden.  Will you join me, Lady Silmariën?’  he asked.

‘As your Majesty wishes,’ she said woodenly. 

Finarfin rose and passed through the door that led to his private garden.  It was the refuge to which he would retreat when the burden of duty grew heavy.  Carefully tended paths wound through small groves of trees and past cool, singing fountains.  Sweet, scented blossoms formed a carpet of colour upon the ground. 

He walked along, the Secondborn woman hovering behind him like a reluctant shadow.

‘The path is broad enough for two, why do you walk behind me?’ he asked.

There was a quiet hiss of indrawn breath behind him.

‘Forgive me, Majesty.  I meant no disrespect,’ she said, shuffling forward to walk beside him but still, he noted, a half step behind.

‘Is it the custom of your people to walk behind their King?’ he asked.

‘It was meant as a show of esteem,’ she said.  There was an odd note of scorn in her voice. Finarfin wondered what it might mean; was she defending the customs of her own people or deriding them?  He would have to learn more before he could decide.

‘I knew some of the Secondborn,’ he said.  ‘There were still those who lived in the north when the Host of the West fought against the Great Enemy.  They were staunch allies and most honorable.’

He waited politely for a response of some sort but the comment had left her with nothing to say.  She was frowning at her boots as though they had committed some heinous crime.

The direction of her attention brought her boots to his notice for the first time.  They looked as though they had walked the length of Middle-earth and back.  The leather was a mosaic of patches and patches of patches.  It was doubtful that any of the original material remained. 

He briefly wondered why Anairë had not offered her new footware and quickly decided that she must have.  Anairë was quite excited to have one of her descendents with her, no matter how distant or strange that descendent might be.  Silmariën must have declined to wear the new shoes.

‘I have heard the Edain of the north were brave and true,’ she finally said.

It was Finarfin’s turn to be disconcerted.  He had spoken of the old allies as though she had known them personally while of course she had not.  He had not accounted how the temporary lives of the Secondborn would shape their experience. 

‘Lady Silmariën,’ he began.

‘Please forgive me, your Majesty, but I prefer to be known as Haleth,’ she said, still glaring at her boots.

With a jolt Finarfin finally put a name to her odd behavior; she was pouting.  It had been ages since he had seen it last for the youngest of his offspring had put childhood behind them long ago.

‘Very well, Lady Hal…’

‘Forgive me, Majesty, but I can hardly call myself a Lady.’

Finarfin blinked.  He could think of many things to say but none of them were likely to be well received. 

‘The Telerin ambassador tells me you were in a ship sailing eastward,’ he said.

‘The Teleri are great mariners,’ said Haleth as she examined a sculpture.  ‘I have every confidence in their ability to recognize both a ship and the direction in which it is sailing.’

‘Especially when the ship is one of their own,’ said Finarfin gently.  It had been a very long time since he had had a conversation of this tenor but the old, long unused skills were returning.

‘Especially when the ship is one of their own,’ said Haleth nodding in agreement, her face a study in contradictory emotions.  Finarfin thought he could recognize at least three: embarrassment, anger and sullen resignation.  It was odd to see so much emotion so close to the surface.  His people had once been like this and worse.  Year upon year of existence had tempered their moods.

‘Why were you sailing east?’ he asked gently. 

It was interesting to watch her lower jaw extend to smother her upper lip.  It was unlike any expression he had seen before.

‘Tol Eressëa,’ she said.

She was lying.  He was absolutely certain of it.  He was also absolutely certain he could not accuse of her it, not matter how obvious it was.

‘Why did you seek the Lonely Isle? Are you not content in Aman?’

She shot him a panicked glance then immediately looked away.

‘How should I not be content in Aman?’ she asked dully.

‘It is not Middle-earth,’ said Finarfin sympathetically. 

‘But Valinor is like unto what Middle-earth was meant to be,’ she said. ‘How could I find fault with it?’

‘It is true that Valinor is what Middle-earth might have been, but it is not as it is.  It must be quite unfamiliar to you, no matter how beautiful.  I would choose that which I loved over that which others deem beautiful.’

Haleth averted her face.  Finarfin pretended not to notice her scrubbing the corners of her eyes.

‘I want to speak my own language,’ she said. There was a catch in her voice.  Again he politely ignored it.

‘There are some in Tirion who speak your language,’ he said kindly.  ‘I shall gladly speak to Inglor on your behalf.’

‘No!’ Haleth cried. 

‘I mean, please don’t trouble yourself,’ she said, abashed.

‘Haleth, I cannot help but note that you are less than happy,’ Finarfin began.

‘Your Majesty, I crave a boon,’ she blurted.

Finarfin inwardly smiled at the forward request.

‘If it is within reason, I shall grant I,’ he replied.

‘I would like to speak to someone who lived in Middle-earth; someone who is familiar with the same places and stories.  Perhaps Master Elrond? I have yet to thank him for healing me.  Or the Ringbearers?  I should like to see the Ringbearers again and hear the tales of the Shire.’

‘Forgive me, Haleth, but from the little I know of them the folk of the Shire have little in common with your people,’ said Finarfin. 

‘But they’re mortal,’ said Haleth.

Ah.  There was the true reason for her discontent.  While she was no longer numbered among the Secondborn, that change had been recent and not of her own choosing.  Here was something he could sympathize with although it still puzzled him; her countrymen had perished in a quest to gain the fate of the Elves.  Here she had been granted it and she gave every appearance of not wanting it; or at least not being happy with it. 

Perhaps she was beginning to fully appreciate what it meant and was regretting the loss of her own Gift. 

Finarfin would have dearly loved to question her and discover if he was correct but it was not the best moment.  There would be time later, but first he would have to win her trust. 

‘Very well,’ he said.  ‘You shall go to Tol Eressëa. But you shall go aboard one of my ships and you shall be accompanied by an escort of my selection.’

Many thanks to Wenont for the suggestions.

Haleth breathed a sigh of relief. The interview with King Finarfin had gone far better than she had any right to expect. 

A retainer led her to a room and left her alone there.  She wondered how long she was expected to stay.  Her wait was not likely to be very long; the King would be glad to see the back of her and had probably already ordered someone to make preparations of her trip.  She looked down at her dress.  It had been lovely the first time she had put it on but her most recent adventure had left it stained and bedraggled.  It suited her better now, but she would have been happier to have had her own, worn traveling clothes and, especially her boots.  She wondered if she should ask whoever came for her to bring her old clothing.  They might allow her to fetch it herself, but that would mean facing the Lady Anairë and explaining her actions.  Haleth groaned as she pictured her ancestress’es puzzled, unhappy expression.  No.  That was one encounter she would be happier to avoid.  She would get to Tol Eressea and then ask for her belongings to be sent.  Anaire had never shown any interest in visiting the Lonely Isle.  Haleth would be safe from having to explain her lack of gratitude.

Colourful tapestries hung from the walls.  One depicted a gathering of Elves upon the shores of the Bay of Elvenhome.  A flotilla of small boats were scattered across the waters of the Bay in what looked to be a race.  Haleth examined it more closely.  The faces of twisted threads displayed far more animation than those belonging to the living, breathing folk of Tirion.  The sailors in the individual boats seemed very focused and the people on the shore were cheering. 

She wondered what it would have been like to have been part of the community of Elves while the Trees had still shone, before all of the unhappiness and sorrow wrought by Morgoth’s treachery and Fëanor’s rebellion.  It would have been far more interesting that living among the animate statues of today.  Perhaps she would not have felt so out of place. 

The detail in the tapestry was incredible.  A laughing couple danced on the beach, their hair flying about them in the fresh, salt breeze.  A dark-haired minstrel stood next to them, a flute raised to his lips.  Haleth examined him minutely; it might be Ecthelion.  Of all of the Elves of Tirion, he had seemed the most alive, which was ironic, considering that he had perished in Middle-earth and spent uncounted years in the Halls of Mandos.  She wondered if he would remember what tune he had been playing at this festival.  Maybe he would play it for her.  It seemed merry enough; the little figures surrounding him almost seemed to be clapping and tapping their feet in time.

In fact, if she listened very closely, she could almost hear the music mixed with the shouts and cheers of the crowd as they watched the regatta. 

The light in the room grew brighter.   The world became clearer, as though a veil that she had never been aware of had been pulled aside.  Even the air was cleaned and laden with the unmistakable aroma of salt water. 

Haleth could not drag her eyes from the tapestry.  For an instant it seemed as though she stood upon the beach.  Golden light streamed from the cleft of the Calcayira and danced upon the water.  The boats were streaming across the bay and there was much shouting and laughing.

‘It is a masterful piece, is it not?’

Haleth found herself back in the present, Lady Anairë beside her.  Haleth’s heart sank.  The conversation she had been hoping to avoid was suddenly upon her.  Even under the circumstances she found it difficult to disentangle herself from the spell of the living tapestry.  The ships darted across in the water in a race that had finished over an Age ago.  She had to answer.  She owed the Lady Anairë some sort of explanation.  She wished she had spent less time fretting over what to tell King Finarfin and more time thinking about what she would say to Anairë.

‘Yes,’ was all Haleth could manage.

‘It was woven by the handmaidens of Vairë.  Some say the Valier herself took part in the weaving.  There are many more akin to it, but those webs are hung from the trees of Yavanna’s Courtyard.’ 

Haleth squinted at the tapestry.  The dancing couple of the beach, hands entwined, had spun in a half circle, exchanging positions. The scent of salt air filled Haleth’s nostrils. 

‘Do they all do that?’ she asked.

There was a brief pause.  ‘Does whom do all of what?’ asked Anairë.

‘That couple,’ said Haleth, pointing a trembling finger to the two tiny figures.  ‘I could swear…’ She trailed off, her mouth dry.  The couple had whirled in a circle and exchanged places.  She was absolutely certain of it.  But that was impossible.  It was a crazy notion.  What would Lady Anairë do if she thought that Haleth was losing her mind?  The Elves of Tirion would not send a madwoman to Tol Eressëa. 

Haleth looked sidelong at Lady Anairë, worried that she might have guessed what she had been about to say.  Fortunately for Haleth, Anairë seemed just as drawn in by the tapestry as Haleth had been. 

‘Do you recognize any of the people depicted here?’ Lady Anairë asked.  ‘This is your family.

‘Our family,’ she corrected herself.  ‘Here is Nolofinwë, my husband and your ancestor.’ She pointed a long, slender finger at a tall, dark-haired individual who stood among a group of richly arrayed Elves.

Haleth obediently looked at the depiction of Nolofinwë.  His long, dark hair stirred in the long-ago breeze.  She blinked, shook her head and examined the nearby figures instead.  ‘Where are you?’ she asked, after being unable to find Anairë.

‘I am nearer the water.  Here,’ answered Anairë, indicating a stately, unmistakable figure.  Two women, one with the silver hair of Círdan’s folk and another with coppery red hair, stood with her at the edge of the water.  ‘That is the Queen, Eärwen, and that is the Lady Nerdanel.’  Anairë smiled and shook her head.  ‘Our children took part in the race.  Arafinwë’s children were natural sailors.  Mine and Nerdanel’s children were not so gifted in that way.  It never stopped them from competing.  What they lacked in skill they tried to make up for in daring.  They took ridiculous chances.  Findekáno was nearly drowned on more than one occasion and Turkáno was little better.’ 

There were only a few dark heads among the racers.  Haleth thought she recognized Fingon and Turgon from the tapestries that hung in Lady Anairë’s home. 

‘And there is little Irissë,’ said Anairë fondly.  Haleth followed the line of her gaze.  A small, dark-haired girl clad in white stood apart from the others.   Even in miniature the figure radiated displeasure, her arms crossed and her brow lowered.

‘She doesn’t look happy,’ Haleth blurted.

‘She was not.  I would not allow her to take part in the race,’ said Anairë. 

‘I imagine it would not have been ladylike,’ said Haleth.

‘Irissël had little time for the business of being ladylike,’ snorted Anairë.  ‘She was never one to sit quietly with spindle and loom. She ever believed herself to be the equal of her brothers.  In some ways, she over-reached their ability.  She could outride all three of them.’

‘Three?’ asked Haleth.  The tales she remembered had only mentioned Anairë and Fingolfin having two sons. 

‘There were three’ she said, answering Haleth’s unspoken question. ‘Findekáno, Turkáno and Arkáno, although you may not have heard of Arkano.  He was my youngest child.  Here he is.’  She pointed to a half-grown elf child who stood at the front of the royal family.  ‘He was perhaps twenty summers here.’

‘Truly?’ asked Haleth, who had estimated his age at closer to ten.

‘Yes, he was tall for his age,’ Anairë explained.  ‘I was told he fell in battle when my people first set foot in Middle-earth.’

That would explain why Haleth had never heard mention of him. ‘Oh,’ she said. Some response was needed and it seemed the safest thing to say. 

A pair of smaller, red-haired elves stood beside Arkáno. 

‘Those are Ambarussa,’ said Anairë.  She sighed and looked away.  ‘I seldom look at this web.’

Haleth looked at her questioningly. 

‘There are too many memories,’ said Anairë.  ‘And too many reminders of what has been lost.’  She ran gently ran her forefinger over the depiction of Aredhel’s hair.  ‘I only wanted her to be safe but she would have none of it.  I often wonder, if only I had kept her closer, if I had tried harder to protect her, if she would still be with me today.’  

‘If there is one thing I have learned, it is that people do as they will,’ said Haleth.

‘Even if they know it is wrong?’ whispered Anairë.

‘Especially if they know it is wrong,’ said Haleth.  ‘Think of my countrymen.’

Anairë bowed her head and turned to Haleth.  Tears glittered at the corners of her grey eyes.  ‘I must beg your forgiveness, Silmariën.  I mourn for my children, yet here you are and you have lost your entire country.’

Haleth blinked, at a loss.  Here she had been expecting to apologize to Lady Anairë and now Lady Anairë was asking her forgiveness.  She would never, ever understand how conversations with Elves went in the opposite direction from what she expected, even if she did live forever.

‘I believe it is only fair to point out that my countrymen almost killed me,’ she said.

‘Be that as it may, certainly not all of them were evil,’ Anairë insisted.  ‘And the land itself was lost.’

The reminder hit Haleth like a sucker punch to the gut and the homesickness that always hovered at the edges of her conscious, overtook her awareness. The East called to her and every fiber of the being yearned to answer.   

‘Yes,’ she heard herself whisper.

Anairë appeared to collect herself.  ‘His Majesty says that you have asked to travel to Tol Eressëa.’

‘Yes,’ Haleth said again, shaking off the tide of grief.  ‘Why don’t you come with me? You could watch over me and Master Elrond would be overjoyed to meet you.  His blood is far closer to yours.’

‘Not yet,’ said Lady Anairë.

‘Master Elrond would make you proud,’ Haleth persisted. ‘He is wise and kind and well-learned and respected. In fact, he’s nothing like me at all.’

Anairë frowned and then sighed. ‘I am sorry, Silmariën.  There is much you do not understand, but the time is not yet right.’

Several days later Lady Anairë and Haleth made their way down the white road that led from Tirion to the sea.  They travelled with what was, in Haleth’s estimation, a small horde of attendants.  The hovering presence of the quiet crowd irritated Haleth, who was accustomed to travelling with a single companion.  The attendants bore many baskets and boxes and one large trunk.  The impedimenta slowed their progress, which was annoying even if the food they carried made for much more satisfying meals and the blankets and cushions made their rest stops very comfortable.

Haleth withheld her observations.  During her years of wandering around Middle-earth she had often wished for better food and comfort.  The speed with which she was willing to give up both astonished her. 

Lady Anairë’s behavior was even more surprising. Haleth had repeated the invitation to join her several times, only to be met with polite rejection at every turn.  It might have made sense if there had been a reason for the refusal, but Anairë had never offered an explanation beyond the fact the Haleth would not understand.  The condescension irritated Haleth, especially because she had done the same thing to Inglor many times.  But that was different.  Inglor did not understand mortals at all and persisted in asking questions up to and beyond the verge of rudeness.  Perhaps Lady Anairë felt the same way about Haleth’s questions.  Before she had come to Valinor and witnessed the Noldor firsthand, Haleth would have rejected this possibility.  But watching the Elves, Haleth had discovered that there was a great deal about them that she did not understand.

They reached the white sands and jewel-spangled beach of the Bay of Eldamar when the sun was at noontide.  Haleth squinted into the glare. A small white ship rested on the beach.  As they approached a lone figure seated on the sand beside it stood up and waved.

It was Inglor.

Haleth fought to keep herself from fleeing back up the road to the sheltering walls of Tirion.  What would she say to him?

‘Greetings, Lord Inglor,’ said Lady Anairë politely.

‘Greetings, Lady Anairë,’ said Inglor with a graceful bow.  ‘Greetings Haleth.’

‘Hello, Inglor,’ said Haleth.  ‘Where is the crew?’

There was a moment of stunned silence.

‘I am afraid you are part of it,’ he said.  ‘The King thought it best that you found an outlet for your restlessness.’

‘I see,’ said Haleth.  Her fingers reflexively drifted to the silver ring.  She had hoped to keep clear of Inglor and thus avoid having to discuss the ring’s meaning.  That would be impossible with both of them alone on a small ship.

Inglor followed her movements. The ghost of a smile lit his face when he saw the ring.

Haleth flinched and thrust her hand behind her back. 

‘When do we depart?’ she asked.

‘After we eat,’ said Lady Anairë firmly.

They shared a meal upon the sand of the beach of Eldamar after Inglor helped the attendants to load the large chest into the ship.

When they had finished, Haleth bade Lady Anairë farewell then hiked up her skirts and grasped the gunwales of the boat and looked at the others expectantly.

‘Well?’ she asked when no one moved to help her.

‘If you will please get into the ship, the rest of us will push it into the water,’ said Inglor.

‘I can push,’ said Haleth tartly.

‘No one here doubts it,’ sighed Inglor.  ‘But your feet will get wet.’

Haleth’s mouth dropped open in protest; she had faced far worse than the prospect of damp feet.  But one glance at the fair faces convinced her that while she could win the argument, she could not do so gracefully.  She would not embarrass Lady Anairë.

Stifling her disagreement she threw one leg into the ship. 

A pair of hands caught her at the waist. 

‘I know you have little time for our customs,’ Inglor whispered in her ear.  ‘But for the sake of Lady Anairë I would ask that in this moment you honour them.’

A chastised Haleth did her best to not scowl as he scooped her up and neatly deposited her in the ship.

He leapt out of the boat and called to the others.  They gathered around the ship to push.  The white wood glided easily over the sand, the ship eager for the sea. Inglor jumped onboard.

‘Your custom does not seem to mind that you get wet,’ Haleth observed as she smiled and waved at those gathered upon the shore.

‘It will dry,’ Inglor said dismissively.  ‘Could you please sit further forward?  I need to sit at the oars.’

‘Inglor, I can row a boat,’ Haleth said.

‘I know you can,’ he said calmly.  As Arafinwe had promised, he was speaking Westron.

She glared at him.  He impassively returned her scrutiny as the ship bobbed in the gentle waves.

‘Oh, very well,’ she said, exchanging places with him with very bad grace.

They left the shore behind as Inglor pulled the oars.  Anairë and her attendants were arrayed like beautiful statues upon the beach.  Anairë slowly raised her hand in farewell.  Haleth wondered how her departure affected her kinswoman.  The older woman’s reaction were so muted that it was impossible for Haleth to tell. 

‘She is disappointed that you did not find Tirion to your liking,’ Inglor replied to her unspoken question.

‘I’d have thought she’d be happy to be rid of a disappointing nuisance,’ snapped Haleth as she glared at Inglor.

‘For pity’s sake, Haleth, why do you always expect people to think the worst of you?’ sighed Inglor.

‘Because I always live down to their expectations!’ she thought.

‘How long will it take to get to Tol Eressëa?’ she asked to change the subject.

‘At least a week if I have to row the entire way,’ he answered.

‘You could raise the sail,’ he added.

‘Oh,’ said Haleth.  ‘I can do something beyond sitting here being useless, then.’

They sailed in silence for several hours, the white sands of Eldamar slowly falling behind them.  Anairë and her attendants had retreated towards Tirion, leaving the jewel-spangled beach empty. The sun began to sink.  Haleth shivered in the evening wind.  Without a word she opened the trunk Anairë had insisted she take.

Inside was an assortment of clothing.  Tucked at the very bottom were her travel-worn shirt of many pockets, her breeches and her beloved boots.  Tearing off her shoes, she tossed them into the box and pulled on her patched boots.  She intended to change the rest of her clothing the instant they reached Tol Eressëa. In the meantime she pulled out a cloak and wrapped it around herself.

‘Why are you wearing a cloak?’ asked Inglor.

‘Because I’m cold?’ said Haleth from the depths of fabric.

‘You are?’ he asked.  He sounded mildly disappointed.

‘Yes, I am,’ she sighed. 

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why? Because the sun is going down and the wind has picked up.  I’m not like you, Inglor.  I’m…’  she stopped.  She had been about to say mortal but that was no longer true.  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I’m just not like you,’ she repeated gruffly. 

‘But you are,’ he said.

‘Don’t remind me,’ thought Haleth.

‘No, I am not.  I still feel the cold.  I still tire quickly compared to you.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said.  ‘I had thought…’

‘That I could share the strength of the Elves?’ asked Haleth.  ‘It would have not been unwelcome but I doubt I ever shall.  My body is still the body of a…’ she could not bring herself to say mortal.

‘Are you still feeling the effects of your injury?’ he asked.

‘It hurts from time to time if I use the arm too forcefully.  That, as least, will heal. For the rest, I haven’t changed. I doubt I ever will.’

‘It may come, given time in the Undying Lands,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you getting along well with Lady Anairë?’

‘She is the soul of kindness,’ answered Haleth stoutly.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Inglor.

The wind veered and Haleth set to work adjusting the sail.

‘What do you think of Tirion?’ he asked when the ship was heading in the proper direction again.

‘It is the most beautiful city I have seen,’ said Haleth unenthusiastically.

‘More beautiful than Valmar?’ asked Inglor.

Haleth shrugged. 

‘I don’t clearly remember Valmar,’ she mumbled.

‘You do not remember?’ asked Inglor.  He sounded mildly concerned.

‘There were trees and bells, many, many bells.  More than there were in Dale,’ she said after careful consideration.

‘Haleth, it was not so long ago.  If you cannot remember…’

‘There were one or two other things occupying my attention!’ she snapped, embarrassed at having been forced to admit another weakness. ‘When I first awakened in Tol Eressëa I couldn’t remember anything at all, not even my own name.’ 

‘And now?’

‘The memories are slowly returning, but in bits and pieces.  There are so many of them and they come in no particular order. I cannot tell which are real and which are fragments from old stories. It’s impossible to sort true recollection from fever dreams, let alone patch them all together. Even thinking about it gives me a headache.’

‘Have you told anyone else of this?’ said Inglor. 

‘No,’ she said sullenly.

‘Perhaps you should tell Master Elrond when we reach Tol Eressëa.  He knows more of the…’ Inglor stopped and bit his lip.

Haleth glared at him, working up a truly devastating retort.  She swallowed her anger and turned to the sea instead.  The ship rode upon gentle swells.  The wind was behind them and it smelled of the flowers of Valinor.  Haleth would have preferred the fresh scent of salt water.

‘The weaknesses of the Secondborn?’ She finished for him. 

‘The conditions of the Secondborn,’ he said firmly.

‘Inglor, enough.  It’s weaknesses.  Say what you mean,’ said Haleth.

‘I did say what I meant,’ he countered.  ‘Haleth, do you still believe Elves are without frailty?’

Before she had come to Aman, Haleth would have shouted at him.  Now she stopped and considered all of the age long hurt and unvoiced longing in Tirion.  ‘No,’ she finally said.  ‘But they are different.’

‘Just so.  Haleth, would you indulge my weakness, just for a moment?’ he asked in a strained voice.

She spun around as he left the tiller and came forward to sit beside her.  Catching her chin in his hand, he looked deeply into her eyes.

Haleth’s breath caught in her throat.  He was so close that their lips nearly met.  If she leaned forward the merest fraction, she could kiss him.  Shivers of anticipation coursed through her.  She knew what the silver ring meant now.  All of her frustration and bitterness were swept aside.  Her eyes closed, her lips parted…

‘Please open your eyes.’

Her eyes flew open.  Inglor was still very close.  He was studying the depths of her eyes as though he could see through them to her innermost thoughts.  That was plainly untrue.  If he did know her thoughts, he would be kissing her. 

His eyes were so blue.  She had never watched them this way before, so close to her.  His breath was warm against her skin.  She attempted to turn her head and lean forward only to be thwarted by his hand upon her chin.  Her fists were clenched so tightly that the nails drove into her palms.  She forced herself to be patient.  Inglor obviously wanted to be the one to initiate their first kiss.  She had waited for years for this moment and had never expected it to come.  All he had to do was turn his head and lean forward.  He would do it very, very soon, as soon as he was finished staring into her eyes. 

Except that he did not lean forward and did not turn his head, he simply continued to stare into her eyes.  What did he expect to find there?  Had a piece of dirt fallen in and she wasn’t aware of it? 

‘Alas, I cannot tell,’ he whispered as he leaned back and released her.

Haleth was too shocked to speak.  Couldn’t tell what?  What had he been searching for?  Why didn’t he just ask?  Unless he didn’t trust her to tell the truth. 

Of course he didn’t trust her to tell the truth.  Who would?

She drew away from him.  The cliffs of the Pelori were visible over his shoulder. Without a guiding hand upon the tiller, the ship had turned. 

‘I think one of us had best steer,’ she said coldly.

Shaking his head, Inglor made his way to the stern of the ship while Haleth ground her teeth in humiliation.

They were in Master Elrond’s garden near where Haleth had first met the hobbits.  The long evening of Valinor was drawing to its close and the shadows stretched upon grass and flower.

‘No, it is not the end,’ said Frodo.  ‘News of the dragon’s death spread through Wilderland.  Many who heard of it came to the Lonely Mountain hoping to gain a part of the horde for themselves.’

‘Thorin knew they would,’ said Bilbo.  ‘He and the others built a wall at the gates of Erebor while messengers were sent to Nain in the Iron Hills’

‘Which of the dwarves was sent?’ asked Haleth.  She was sitting on the ground looking up at the hobbits who were seated on a bench.

‘Dwarves?  Who said anything about dwarves? Thorin sent birds who could speak the Common Tongue,’ answered Bilbo.

‘Talking birds?’ asked Haleth incredulously.  She suspected Bilbo’s age was affecting his wit.

‘Some birds can speak,’ offered Inglor who was also seated upon the ground.  ‘They are very discerning in their conversation partners,’ he added to her skeptical expression. 

Haleth rolled her eyes. Inglor had been more annoying than usual since the strange encounter in the boat.  The episode had left Haleth feeling soiled, although she could not say why.  Inglor had never offered and explanation for his odd behavior.  Haleth knew there was no point in questioning him; she would not understand his vague half explanations.

‘Please continue,’ she said to Frodo.

‘Perhaps Bilbo could,’ said Frodo. ‘It is his story, after all.’

‘I am too old to tell it right,’ Bilbo protested.

‘But not too old to remember it properly,’ said Frodo.

‘I remember it all as though it was yesterday,’ said Bilbo wistfully.  ‘Yet I cannot recall what I had for breakfast this morning.’

This gave Haleth an idea. She had spent some time in Master Elrond’s library and had been surprised as how empty it was compared to what she remembered -- or thought she could remember -- of the library at Rivendell. 

‘I wish someone had written down your tales,’ she said. 

‘Oh, but we did.  Both of us,’ said Frodo.

‘Splendid!  Where is the book?’

‘I left it with Sam in the Shire,’ replied Frodo. 

‘What have we here?’ Elrond and Celebrían came into view, walking arm in arm. 

Inglor flowed to his feet, bowed and welcomed their hosts with flawless grace. Haleth and the Ringbearers hurriedly clambered to their feet and followed his example. 

‘Mr. Baggins was just telling us of how Smaug was defeated,’ said Haleth. 

‘Which one?’ he asked.

‘Frodo,’ said Bilbo at the same instant that Frodo said ‘Bilbo.’ While Inglor said ‘I believe there was only one Smaug.’

‘They were just at the point where the dragon had been killed and Thorin Oakenshield had sent messengers to his kinsman in the Iron Hills,’ said Haleth.

‘And that is as far as the story shall go for me today,’ said Bilbo.  ‘I’m afraid I’m rather sleepy. Frodo can finish the tale.’  His head nodded until his chin rested on the rich fabric of his jacket.

‘Come, Bilbo, it is time for you to find your bed,’ said Celebrían. Guiding Bilbo gently by the shoulder, she led the elderly hobbit out of the garden. 

‘I almost forgot. I have something for you, Mr. Baggins,’ said Inglor.  He dug into his belt and pulled out a small, battered pouch.

Frodo’s eyes widened when his saw it.  ‘Could that be what I think it is?’ he said.

‘I cannot say,’ said Inglor, handing the pouch to the hobbit. 

Frodo untied the stays. ‘Pipeweed!’ he exclaimed, taking a deep sniff of the aromatic leaves.  ‘Oh, most wondrous Elf, where did you get this?’

‘I traded a Dwarf for it,’ Inglor said, laughing. 

‘Where is my pipe?’ asked Frodo, slapping at the pockets of his shirt.  ‘It must be in my room.  What am I saying?  I can’t burn this.  There may be seeds!  Perhaps I could grow them and have a permanent supply?’  He looked from Inglor to Elrond. ‘If Master Elrond would allow me some space in his garden, to be sure,’ he added.

‘I would not deny you, Mr. Baggins,’ said Elrond.

‘Well, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself,’ said Frodo as he reluctantly tied the laces of the pouch.  ‘There may be no seeds.  I should check first.’

‘I shall help you to search,’ Inglor offered.  He followed a hopeful Frodo indoors.

Haleth stretched, made her excuses and wandered to her room.  The night, as so many of the others, was filled with broken dreams and fragmented images so that she awakened without feeling rested at all.

She stumbled into the hall where breakfast foods were laid out.  Except for the evening meal, Elrond’s folk seldom ate together.  Haleth stared at the plates of fresh buns and slices of fresh fruits.  Nothing was appealing.

A child entered the room.  Haleth shook her head.  It was Frodo. There were no children in Master Elrond’s new home.

 She had not seen a single child since she had come to Aman. 

Under Haleth’s wondering gaze, he piled a plate high with food. 

‘We Hobbits are known for our healthy appetites,’ he said when he noticed her stare.

‘Oh?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry,’ she continued, realizing she was being rude.  ‘I never spent any time with your people. What are they like?’

‘Like ordinary people,’ he said. 

Haleth wondered what it would be like to be ordinary. 

‘Did you find any seeds?’ she asked to change the subject.

‘Yes!  A few.  Inglor and I shall plant them today.’  He continued speaking but Haleth stopped listening at the mention of Inglor’s name, too busy with her own bitter thoughts to listen. 

‘…seem to have lost a button.’

‘What?’ asked Haleth sharply.

Frodo looked taken aback by the strength of her reaction.

‘I’m sorry, did you say you had lost something?’ she asked, struggling to keep her tone even. 

‘Yes.  I am missing a button.  It’s nothing. I suppose I could easily find a replacement or the Elves could fashion a new one.’

A thrill ran down Haleth’s spine.  Something was lost!  That meant there was something to find! 

‘What exactly did this button look like?’ she asked.

‘It was about as large as my thumb-nail and it was made of brass.’

‘Good!  Very good. When did you see it last?’

‘Yesterday morning.  Bilbo and I broke our fast in the garden.’

‘When did you notice it was missing?’ she continued. 

‘Only this morning,’ he began.

‘And were there any other places you visited yesterday besides the garden?’

‘There was the library, the dining area and the kitchen,’ he said.  ‘But I believe…’

‘Splendid!  Wonderful!’ she said. As she marched towards the door it occurred to her that she might have been somewhat abrupt.  ‘Oh.  Please enjoy your breakfast!’ she said. 

She was down the hall as quick as a hound on the scent.

~*~

Teithor patrolled the library.  This room’s equivalent in Rivendell had claimed most of his time.  There had always been someone in need of his counsel or help.  Yet, since he had come to Tol Eressëa, he had spent less and less time among the scrolls and tomes and more time out of doors, busying himself in the fields.  He had always done his part during the autumn harvest, but he had always considered it a chore rather than a joy. 

It was a sad fact that on Tol Eressëa there was far less demand for the resources in the library.  Everyone in the household knew all of the stories by heart and could sing them at the Tale Fire.

In fact, if it were not for the mortals who were currently part of the household, there would have had even less use for the library and for Teithor’s skills, for he had been transcribing the adventures of the Ringbearers. 

He was surprised to discover that someone had left a book open on the reading table.  He was even more surprised when he realized the book dealt with the Elder Days.  The pages had been left open at the story of Caranthir and the massacre of the people of Haleth.  An artist’s depiction of the two protagonists graced the open page.

Haleth.  That was the name of Master Elrond’s unusual guest.  She had occasionally turned up in Rivendell, often wounded and always disrespectable.  She must have been the one who had left the book out. 

He closed the book, intending to put it back in its appointed place…and almost stepped on someone. 

She was lying on her side facing the bookshelves. Dressed in a distinctive baggy shirt and trousers, he would have recognized her anywhere, even at the odd angle.

His first thought was that she was asleep, but as he watched she tapped her fingers against her lips in the manner of the awake.

He cleared his throat. 

She rolled onto her stomach.  The motion brought her directly against the hem of his robe, which she stared at with the most amazing of expressions. It reminded him of small child who had been caught in the act of being naughty.

‘Good morning,’ she said as she sprang to her feet.

‘Good morning,’ he replied.

‘I was just looking for…um…’ she gestured vaguely at the bookshelf. 

‘Were you looking for this, perhaps?’ he asked, offering her the book. 

‘No,’ she said, barely glancing at the cover.

‘For what were you searching?  I can help you to locate it.’

Her expression darkened, then she smiled and shook her head.  ‘No, thank-you.  Looking is half the fun, isn’t it? Or most of the fun, really. In any case I am not…I mean no longer in the mood to read.  I shall not disturb you any further.  Good day.’  This was delivered in a rush of Westron.  Teithor watched her rapidly retreating back and wondered what she was about.

Then he shrugged and placed the book into its delegated spot.

Elhedril swept up the rushes from the dining hall floor.  Everyone took their turn at the necessary household tasks, but sweeping was far from Elhedril’s favourite activity. 

‘I can do that.’

Elhedril looked up in surprise.  Before her stood the mortal woman who had come to visit Master Elrond.  She was dressed as the mortal men had been, in a shirt and trousers instead of a more sensible gown or robes. Elhedril had been familiar with many of the female descendants of Elros and none of them had dressed in this fashion.  Still, the woman’s eyes shone with a purpose as she held out her hand for the broom. 

Perhaps sweeping was something that excited the Secondborn?

Before Elhedril could answer the woman took the broom from her hands and began to sweep the dining room floor in broad, sloppy strokes. What she lacked in efficiency she made up for in enthusiasm. 

‘I don’t suppose you’ve found anything interesting?’ she asked Elhedril conversationally.

‘Interesting?’ echoed Elhedril, at a loss for what might be interesting about rushes and crumbs.

‘Interesting.  Out of place.  Something you weren’t expecting to find like, perhaps, a small brass button.’

‘No,’ said Elhedril slowly.  ‘When did you lose this button?’

‘It isn’t my button. I’m just looking for it.’ The Aftercomer sounded insulted.  Elhedril had no idea how her question might have given offense.

‘I haven’t found a button, but that wouldn’t be surprising if you lost it last night.  The floor is swept three times a day, after each meal.’

The mortal woman stopped sweeping in mid-stroke, the broom poised in the air. ‘Can you tell me where the dust from the previous night’s sweeping would be?’

‘In the kitchen midden, of course.’

The mortal woman shoved the broom back into Elhedril’s hands. ‘Excuse me, I really must be going,’ she said grimly.

Elhedril continued with her unwanted task.  Mortals certainly did strange things. 

It was after the supper hour. Bilbo and Frodo were on the bench in Elrond’s garden, as was their usual wont. 

‘Where do you suppose the strange lady in man’s clothing is?’ wondered Bilbo.

‘Haleth?  I am certain she is about, ‘ said Frodo.

‘I’m surprised she isn’t here.  I thought she wanted to hear the rest of my story.’

‘Perhaps she went hunting?’ Frodo suggested.

‘That is hardly a lady-like activity,’ snorted Bilbo. ‘Then again, she isn’t the most lady-like lady, is she?’

‘Good evening Mr. Baggins.  And to you as well, Mr. Baggins,’ Haleth greeted them.  Frodo was certain she had

overheard Bilbo’s remark.  Judging by the way she frowned, the elderly hobbit had offended her.  He echoed her greeting faintly.  Her clothing, he noted, had acquired a few new stains. He wondered if she had helped to muck out the stables.

She threw herself onto the ground and intensely studied the earth beneath the bench. 

‘Did you find it?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Did I find what?’ asked Frodo in confusion.

‘Your button.  Did you find it?’ 

‘Oh!  No.  Not yet,’ said Frodo who had not thought of it at all since the morning conversation.

The news seemed to cheer her considerably.  She sat back and grinned. ‘That’s…well, I’m certain it will turn up.’

‘Could I trouble you to please continue with your story?  You had just reached the point where the Dwarves had sent the talking birds with messages.’

‘Perhaps we should wait for Inglor?’ Frodo suggested.

‘Oh.  Him.  He comes and goes as he pleases,’ she sniffed.  ‘He may be leagues away.’

‘Good evening.’ Inglor strode into the clearing and sat gracefully on the grass. ‘I trust your day passed well?’ 

‘Oh, yes,’ said Haleth with an unpleasant smile. 

Frodo muttered something noncommittal.  The interaction between these two had never been comfortable.  This evening seemed worse than usual.

‘Mr. Baggins was about to continue the tale of the Dwarves at the Lonely Mountain after the death of Smaug,’ she said.

‘Yes.  Of course.  But first, Mr. Baggins, I have something that I believe belongs to you.’  Inglor produced a small circle and gave it to Frodo. The brass glinted in the long rays of the evening sun.

‘Thank-you, Lord Inglor, where did you find it?’ asked a delighted Frodo.

‘In the hallway just outside your room,’ came the reply.  ‘Perhaps it rolled under the door without your noticing.’

‘How delightful.’  Haleth’s face was a cold mask of rage.

Yes, well…’ stammered Frodo.

‘Haleth, are you well?’ asked Inglor, concern evident in his voice.

‘How could I not be well?  I have been accepted into the Blessed Realm and Mr. Baggins has his button.  Everything is as it should be.’  It was amazing how she could speak while barely moving her lips.

‘You do not look well.  You are quite pale.’

‘Really?  Am I?  How strange.  Especially after I spent most of the afternoon out of doors searching…’ She reined herself in.  ‘I’m fine.’

‘Haleth, if you are not well you should tell Master Elrond.’ 

‘I said I’m fine.  I can’t help it if you think I’m lying,’ she growled.

‘Haleth!  I never said...’ Inglor began.

‘Yes you did.  Just now.  Please don’t tell me you didn’t say what Mr. Baggins and I just heard you say.  Isn’t that correct Mr. Baggins?’

‘I…er…’ stuttered Frodo.  If female company was like this, he was quite content to be a bachelor.

‘See?  My Baggins agrees with me,’ she said triumphantly.  ‘And I’m happy you have your button again, Mr. Baggins. 

Truly I am. Good for you for finding it, Inglor.  When exactly did you find it?’

‘Last night,’ Inglor said innocently.

Haleth leapt to her feet.  It seemed to Frodo that she was fighting the urge to use physical violence. 

‘I was wrong.  I am feeling somewhat under the weather.  I shall bid you all a good evening.’ 

To Frodo’s relief, she marched away.

Inglor ran after her. 

Frodo shook his head, unable to decide if Inglor was overly brave or severely lacking in intelligence.

‘Haleth?  Haleth!’ Inglor called.

‘Go away, Inglor, I am indisposed.’

‘But your room is the other way.’

She turned on her heel.  ‘I know where my room is,’ she hissed.  ‘I don’t need you to find it for me.’

‘Then why are you…’

‘What do you CARE?’ she exploded.  ‘What do you care where my room is or the state of my health, or anything else about me?’

He seemed to shrink.  ‘Haleth, I must know…’

‘Know what?’ she stormed when he hesitated. ‘Know what I’ve been doing?  I’ve been searching fruitlessly for something you found with no effort at all!’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, genuinely puzzled.

‘I mean I want to be alone,’ she snapped.  ‘Go away, Inglor.’

Haleth stormed through the woods, oblivious of her surroundings.  How dare Inglor rob her of her task? Even if the task had been self- appointed and unannounced.

The sensible part of her mind tried to assert itself.  She was being unreasonable.  Mr. Baggins had his button. That was the important thing, wasn’t it?  It was and of course she was happy.  She had expressed her happiness several times.  Yet judging by the expressions on Frodo and Inglor’s faces, they had doubted her sincerity.

Her pace slowed as her conscience assailed her.

She should go back and apologize, but it was too much to bear. 

Blind rage had carried her into one of the many groves of elm trees that blanketed this part of Tol Eressëa.  She wondered from what direction she’d come; she’d been too angry to pay attention.

If she climbed a tree, she might be able to find her way back.  There was one likely candidate, a younger sapling not yet as large as its neighbours.  She swarmed of up the trunk and edged out on a branch was that entangled with a bough of a larger tree.  Elves moved through tree branches as easily as if they walked on a paved pathway.  Haleth was much less agile, but she managed to climb onto the larger tree with only a few scratches. 

She picked her way upwards and settled into a fork between the main trunk and a large branch.  There was a break in the foliage, a cleft in the green canopy.  She peered through it, hoping to find something familiar.
 
To her relief, she recognized one of the out buildings of Master Elrond’s new home.  She should go back, except that would mean facing Mr. Baggins and Inglor and having to explain herself.  While not the most comfortable of seats, it was far easier to sit in the tree than face either of them.

It was far more awkward being back in civilization.  In fact, her entire existence was awkward. 

What in the world had Inglor been thinking when he had fed her that concoction?  He had claimed that he could not stand to be without her, but why?  It certainly wasn’t from romantic interest, not after the extended non-kiss on their most recent journey. How could she have been so foolish to believe the silver ring was a symbol of betrothal? She yanked it off her finger, intending to throw it away.  The silver glimmered in the evening sun.  With a sigh she shoved it back on to her finger. 

Life in Middle-earth had never been this complicated.  It had been uncomfortable and dangerous, but at least she had understood how things worked.  The Elves of the Blessed Realm were incomprehensible.  Even if she did live for the rest of Arda she suspected she would never feel at home among them.

She groaned and rubbed her eyes.  If she had the choice, she would happily trade eternal life in the Blessed Realm for an hour with her family.

The thought of home drew her eyes towards the sea.  She searched back and forth, looking for the dark smudge she had seen during her picnic with Ecthelion and her heart nearly stopped when she found it.  , She had never asked if it had been real or a trick of the light.  She had been afraid of the answer.  But now, seeing it again, she was sure there was an island in just the place that Númenor should be. 

If only she had a ship and a few supplies!  If only she had been thinking more clearly when she had fled Arafinwë’s court, but she hadn’t and, unless she took up boat building, this was the closest to home she would ever get.

~*~

The stars were burning brightly by the time Haleth worked up the courage to return to Master Elrond’s home. 

The sweet sound of Elvish singing rang through the night air.  Haleth was careful to avoid the singers.  She did not want to encounter anyone.

Which was why she was not surprised at all to turn and corner and find Master Elrond alone in his garden, hands clasped behind his back as he examined the stars.

He had not seemed to see her, or at least he had not acknowledged her.  If she took a different path, he might not speak to her at all.  She spun on her heel, intent upon escape.

‘Haleth, I was hoping to find you.  Please attend.’

Haleth slumped in defeat.  ‘Yes Master Elrond,’ she said without any enthusiasm.

She took up a station half a step behind him. They strolled along the meandering path without speaking.  Haleth’s anxiety grew with each step.  Master Elrond must want her to leave but he was too polite to ask her directly.  She would spare him the trouble.

‘I shall pack my things and leave at dawn,’ she said, unable to tolerate the silence any longer.

‘I did not ask you to depart,’ said Elrond, favouring her with a sidelong glance.

‘No.  And I thank-you for your courtesy.  Nonetheless I should go.  I am not very good company and I have already imposed upon you and your household too much.’

‘Haleth, it has been millennia since my brother passed from the Circles of this World and I continue to miss his presence.  I have spent the better part of an Age caring for the needs of his descendants, at least as much as they would allow me.  It pains me to see you in such straights.  Will you please check your unreasonable pride and cease your self-destructive behavior?’

Haleth gaped at him. 

‘My request shocks you.’ He said.

‘Your straightforwardness shocks me,’ she replied, too surprised to be diplomatic. ‘Elves are incapable of it.’

‘You forget I am not entirely an Elf,’ he said.

‘Forgive me Master Elrond, but you have lived far longer than any mortal I have ever known.’

This earned her a long, hard, incredulous look.

‘What did I say? Why are you looking at me that way?’ she asked.  If he was going to be blunt, so was she.

‘In what way?’ he asked.

‘As though I had just said something ridiculous. You were born thousands of years ago.  How many mortals born thousands of years ago are walking around now?’

‘Haleth, stop trying to change the subject. Your behavior, your very presence is changing my household.’

‘I know.  And I apologize.  And that’s why I offered to leave.’ Why couldn’t he see reason?

‘Please do not put words into my mouth. I did not say your presence was entirely disruptive.’

‘I…what?’ Haleth stammered.

‘Haleth, since I arrived on Tol Eressea, do you know how many guests have visited from Aman?’ he asked.

‘Um…well, no, but quite a few I would imagine. Except for Lady Anairë.  I invited her.’

‘Including yourself and Inglor, four,.’ sSaid Elrond.

‘Four?  That can’t be right.  Almost everyone here must have friends and relatives who never…I mean who didn’t.’  There was blunt and then there was rude and she wasn’t quite ready to step that far over the line. She backed away from the conversational precipice.

‘You, Inglor, Ecthelion and Glorfindel.  Ecthelion and Glorfindel arrived only a few days after you.’ 

It took Haleth a moment to digest this information.

‘I don’t understand.  If I could see my friends or family again after so many years...’ She stopped, the lump in her throat choking her words.  Of course she couldn’t see them.  They were all dead.

‘I don’t understand,’ she finished hoarsely.

‘To be mortal is to change.  You change us, Haleth, whether you mean to or not. And it is not always a bad thing to change.’

‘But I’m not… I mean I’m no longer…’  He was watching her, a question on his face.  Could it be that he didn’t know?  How could he not know?  Didn’t Elves gossip?

‘I am no longer mortal.’  There. She’d said it.  Now would come the inevitable string of questions that she did not want to answer.

‘But you have not learned how to be immortal,’ he said gently.

‘I…what?’  The conversation was making her head spin.

‘You forget I was born mortal.  I know what it is like to have the expectation of the Gift of the Secondborn.  Did you believe it would be easy to surrender that Gift?’

‘I honestly don’t know Master Elrond.  Unlike you, I was never really given a choice.  The decision was made for me.’ She wanted to say a great deal more, to rant and rave and accuse Inglor of grave injustice.  But Master Elrond had chosen the fate of the Firstborn, he obviously did not share her opinion.

‘Be that as it may, here you are.  I can help you make the transition from thinking like one of the Secondborn to thinking like one of the Firstborn, but only if you are willing to accept my help.’

Haleth’s gut reaction was to insist she could manage on her own but she had not been coping well.  In fact, that was an understatement.  Given time, she could muddle through on her own, and she did have a great deal of time, but what damage would she cause along the way? 

‘I promise it will not be too onerous,’ he said.

‘What would you suggest?’ she asked.

‘You need a purpose,’ he said.

‘A purpose,’ she echoed, at a loss. 

‘What have you done in the past?’

‘I found things.  There doesn’t seem to be much call for it here.  And even when there is, someone else is better at it,’ she finished darkly, thinking of Inglor and the button.

‘You cannot compare yourself to others.’

‘Please, Master Elrond. How can I not? No matter what I chose to do everyone, and I mean everyone, will always be better than me.  They’ve had several thousand years more practice than me.  I can never hope to catch up.’

‘Haleth, my foster fathers were the sons of Fëanor. Gil-galad was the son of Fingon.  If I had followed your line of reasoning, I never would have left the Ered Luin. There is always someone better than you.  Always.  That is no excuse to give up.’

He was right, of course, but now she was at a loss.  What could she do? Even her skill for finding things was overshadowed by Bilbo who had found the One Ring of Power.

Another thought occurred to her.That was it! The Hobbits had told her that they had written down their tale but that they had left the book in Middle-earth.  With their permission, she could write, or at least record while they dictated their stories.  She could also record the less epic stories that they told of their home, the Shire.  It would help her to remember them and what it had been like to be mortal.

‘Master Elrond, I’d like to request ink and paper,’ she said.

‘That may take some time as such things are in short supply.  However, the tools and the raw materials are available to fashion these things, if you are willing to take the time.’

‘Thank-you, Master Elrond.  I would truly appreciate it.’  It was strange.  She felt better already.  It wasn’t the exhilaration she had felt when she had learned of the missing button, but it was far better than the feeling of uselessness that had dogged her steps since she had lost her Gift.
 
‘Splendid!  I shall approach Teithor tomorrow morning.  He and Ecthelion have been busy in the workshops, making paper and ink.’

‘Thank-you, Master Elrond., Mmay I be excused now?’

‘It is late.  You should seek some rest.’

Haleth sketched a hasty bow and went in search of her room.  Her conscience nagged her every step of the way.  She had to apologize to Inglor. 

She stopped outside the door of his room.  ‘Inglor,’ she called softly.  How many times had she done this in the past?  Screamed at him and then apologized hours later when her conscience finally beat her pride into submission. 

‘Inglor, it’s Haleth.  Please may I enter?’ 

There was no answer.

She had really done it this time; he refused to speak to her at all.  She could hardly blame him.

‘Inglor, please. I’m coming in.’ The door was not locked, which disappointed her.  ‘Look, Inglor, I don’t blame you for not wanting to speak to me.’ 

The room was completely silent.  That didn’t mean anything.  How many times had she believed she was alone only to have Inglor startle her?  He was being stubborn and refusing to talk to her.

She could be stubborn, too.

She fumbled around in the darkness, pulling the stub of a candle, tinder, flint and steel from her many pockets.  ‘I’m sorry, Inglor.  I was unreasonable.  I should not have raised my voice.  Will you please say something?’
 
The candle flame spluttered to life.  A quick look around confirmed that he was not in the room.  Typical Inglor.  She would have to apologize three or four times before he actually heard her.

A slightly longer look convinced her that his pack was also gone. 

He must have unpacked. It would make sense.  Who kept a loaded pack when they were staying somewhere? Except that Haleth had never known Inglor to unpack. 

She extinguished the candle.  He must be out of doors with the others. 

She rushed outside.  The strains of elvish music were audible in the warm night air.  She followed the music, a song of Tuor and Idril and how they sailed away to never be heard from again. Haleth listened, for she had never heard it before. She wondered what Elrond would think of it; they were his grandparents after all.

When she finally found the singers Inglor was not among them.  There was at least one person she knew, though.

‘Good evening, Lord Ecthelion,’ she said.

‘Good evening, Haleth.  You are abroad later than I would have expected.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said dismissively.  ‘Have you seen Inglor? I need to speak to him.’

Ecthelion’s face fell.  ‘I am sorry, Haleth.  He departed earlier this evening.’

Haleth rocked back on her heels. 

‘Did he say where he was going?’ she asked.

‘No.  Nor did he say when to expect him.’

‘Oh,’ said Haleth, crestfallen.  She shouldn't complain.  She had told Inglor was to go away, but she had never expected him to actually leave.
 
‘May I be of assistance?’ Ecthelion offered.

‘No, thank-you, Lord Ecthelion.  I bid you good night.’

She raced away before he could speak again, her own bitter words ringing in her ears.

Oh, she had really done it this time.
 

Haleth rose from the evening meal.  There was always a fair crowd at Master Elrond’s table, which she appreciated; the crowd and the after meal chaos made it easier for her to slip away. 

She had chosen her place carefully; close to a door but not precisely next to it, a quarter of the way down one of the long tables where those less exalted than Master Elrond and his close family and important guests were seated.  Ecthelion was at the high table, his head bent in conversation with Lady Celebrían. 

The last course of the evening meal was being brought from the kitchens.  Haleth shuffled into the confusion.  She paused only to take a silver spoon from her sleeve and lay it on an empty chair.  The petty theft was a ridiculous exercise, especially because she never actually carried of the stolen property out of the dining area.  She did it, she told herself, to stay in practice.

Picking up a platter littered with crumbs and pieces of gristle, she sauntered into the corridor that linked the kitchen to the dining hall. 

The kitchen was a scene of barely controlled chaos as Canril directed her small army of cooks and servers.  There seemed to be more turmoil than usual with Canril barking orders over the clang of pots and the chatter of the kitchen staff.

Haleth deposited the platter with the mound of dirty dishes and headed for the door that led to the outer world and escape.

A tremendous crash and a wraith-like shriek stopped her in her tracks. 

A pretty serving girl was shouting at one of the luckless scullery man.  ‘How could you be so clumsy?’  Her dress, which to Haleth seemed rather fancy for work, even for an Elf, was splotched with gravy.  ‘What do you mean you’re sorry?  How could you?  And tonight of all nights!’  The unhappy man made a half-hearted attempted to brush away the half-congealed sludge.

‘Do NOT touch me!’ the girl howled with offended dignity. 

‘That’s enough.’ Canril roared.  ‘Herion, get on with the washing up.  Faelwen, stop making such a fuss.’

‘But my dress! It was new!’ Faelwen cried.

‘Yes, yes.  You should wash it as soon as possible before the stain has time to set.’

‘But I was to serve the Head Table the final course,’ Faelwen protested.

‘Well you cannot do that now, can you?  All covered in sauce and grease.’

Faelwen openly wept as she raced for the exit.

Haleth dodged out of her way.  She began to follow when a hand grasped her shoulder.  ‘You seem to be unoccupied.  You can serve the last course to Head Table.’

‘But…’ Haleth protested.

‘No buts,’ said Canril, shoving a heavy platter of delicacies into her arms.  ‘No one comes into my kitchen without working.  You are here.  You will work.  Off you go.’

‘But…’ Haleth said as Canril frog-marched her to corridor that led back to the dining hall.  She could think of any number of reasons she should not be carrying the serving tray.  One glance at Canril’s face was enough to tell her they would all fall on deaf ears.

‘It is not overly heavy.  I am certain you can manage.  If you insist upon using my kitchen as an escape route, you can expect more of the same.

‘And smile, girl,’ she said as they reached the end of the hallway.  ‘Your face could curdle fresh milk.’

‘I am not a girl,’ Haleth muttered under her breath as she forced a courtly smile to her face.  The last course was announced and she swept into the room at the head of the procession. 

Master Elrond and Celebrían were kind.  They accepted her presence without comment, continuing their conversation as though nothing was unexpected.

‘What have we here?’ asked Ecthelion when he saw her. 

‘Honeyed fruit by the look of it,’ said Haleth.

‘Yes.  So it is.  Thank-you.’  He drummed his fingers against his lips as she held the platter for him.  ‘They look very good.’  His gaze flicked to her reddening face.  ‘Are they good?’

‘I don’t know.  I haven’t tasted them,’ she replied, struggling to keep her voice even.

‘Truly?  I’ve been led to believe that those who work in the kitchen sampled the food before it is served.’

‘There are likely those who have tried them.  Shall I go back to the kitchen and have one of them serve you?’

‘No.  That will not be necessary.’

To Haleth’s frustration, he returned to contemplating the dessert.  The platter was very heavy for her arms were tired after a day of mixing pulp to make paper.

‘What would you recommend?’ he finally said.

‘I’d recommend choosing something before I drop it on you lap,’ growled Haleth.

‘Ecthelion, I believe you have tormented our guest enough.’ Celebrían’s voice was as soft as a butterfly wing but it carried unmistakable authority.

‘As you say, My Lady.’  He leapt to his feet and took the platter from Haleth before she could protest and proceeded up the table with it.

‘Please be seated,’ Celebrían requested.

Haleth threw a last, despairing look at the door to the kitchen then sat down in Ecthelion’s place.

‘There is to be a gathering at the Tale Fire this evening.  Would you be so good as to join us?’

Haleth pasted the fake smile on her face.  Her cheeks were beginning to ache. ‘It would be my greatest delight, Lady Celebrían.’

‘I am happy to hear it,’ Celebrían answered with a smile so bright that Haleth thought it might be real.  She bent in and placed her hand over Haleth’s.  ‘You are too much alone.  I know how it is, wishing for solitude when you are wounded.  Please believe me when I say that you will heal more quickly with the company of others.’

Haleth looked away.  Ecthelion was making a great show of serving Glorfindel, pointing to from one delicacy to the other but not allowing him to touch any of them.

‘You are having a good affect on our people.’  Haleth looked at Celebrían questioningly.  Celebrían was watching Ecthelion’s performance.  ‘None of us has been so animated in an Age.’

Haleth turned her attention back to Ecthelion.  He was laughing, the expression lighting his handsome features.  Her heart lurched in her chest. 

‘Oh.  Well.  I…’ she spluttered, her face blazing.

She was saved as Master Elrond signaled the end of the meal.  With Celebrían at his side, he led the assembled guests to the Tale Fire. 

Haleth followed slowly.  She wanted nothing better than to melt into the shadows and go to her own room.  There was a hole in her heart.  It had been there since Inglor left. But she had given her word to Lady Celebrían to attend the Tale Fire. She would only stay a little while.

‘Haleth.’

‘What?’ she asked, startled.

Ecthelion was standing by her side, offering her his arm. ‘I asked if you would allow me to accompany you to the Tale Fire.’  

She looked into his grey eyes and her heart sank.  There would be no quick escape now. ‘Yes.  Thank-you, Lord Ecthelion,’ she murmured as she placed her arm upon his.

They were quite near the front of the processional line, which made sense given Ecthelion’s position in Elvish society.  Several of the maidens were watching her with something more than the usual Elvish impassivity.  She stared at them, trying to decode their expressions.  As she watched, one turned to another and whispered something. 

‘Pay them no heed,’ Ecthelion murmured as he smiled and nodded in their direction.

‘I think they’re angry. They’re angry, aren’t they?  Why are they angry?’ she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head and laughed.  ‘You have a great deal to learn of Elvish society.’

Haleth sighed.  She understood the women’s reactions now.  They were jealous.  After so many experiences with Inglor she had grown accustomed to the misplaced jealousy.  She had hoped that Elvish society was above that sort of pettiness.   

‘Are you…tired?’  Ecthelion had groped for the final word as though it was a foreign concept.  Haleth sourly reflected that it probably was.  It seemed unlikely that Tuor had ever tired on the many patrols the two of them had shared.

‘Yes,’ she said.  It was easier than explaining her true thoughts; besides, it would spoil his merry mood.

‘Well, then I shall have to speak to Master Elrond and change the plans for this evening. There is something I would like very much for you to hear.  If you are asleep you will certainly not hear it.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Haleth as they swept into the Hall of the Tale Fire.

Like the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, the gathering place was a large room.  The high ceiling was held up by many pillars carved in the shaped of trees.  Haleth wondered why the Elves did not have their Tale Fires out of doors. It would save the effort of carving pillars into the shape of trees. 

There were no tables but a myriad of cushions and pillows were strewn about the floor.  Master Elrond and Lady Celebrían sat in two high-backed chairs.  There were several stools for the guests who did not want to sit on the floor. A fire burned in a large hearth, its flames casting a ruddy light throughout the room. 

‘Here.  Please be seated,’ said Ecthelion, leading her to a cushion very close to the hearth.

Haleth protested weakly.  She would have much preferred a place in the cool shadows.

‘Please remain here.  You will not be disappointed.’  He flashed a smile that froze Haleth’s objections on her lips.

‘Very well,’ she said.  She was thankful for the ruddy light of the fire; it masked the flush that was rising on the cheeks. 

Haleth rubbed her face as he walked away.  What was happening to her? One moment she was, sick for worry over Inglor and the instant Ecthelion smiled at her she became a vapid young girl. Ecthelion was showing interest in her because of her distant relationship to his old friend.  That was all.  She was too old, wrinkled and physically imperfect to be attractive to him.  This never happened with Inglor.  She had always been certain of Inglor’s complete lack of romantic interest.  

Her glance fell to the silver ring, now red-gold in the firelight.  Drat Inglor anyways for never explaining the meaning of the stupid ring.  If he hadn’t explained it, that was probably because it had no meaning.  It was a token of friendship, nothing more.

She silently cursed the limpë for making her a fool.  No one would be interested in her, let alone the Elf Lords.  Compared to the least attractive of the Elves she was plain. Her personality could be generously described as cantankerous.

‘Are you well, Haleth?’ Master Elrond sounded concerned.

‘Yes, Master Elrond.  I am merely somewhat fatigued, thank-you,’ she lied.

Her face set, Haleth stared into the golden flames of the Tale Fire and vowed to keep her foolishness to herself. It was one thing to know that she was a fool.  It was another thing entirely that everyone else should discover it.

Ecthelion, Glorfindel and an individual Haleth did not recognize made their way to the front of the hall.  Ecthelion carried a flute, Glorfindel a fiddle and the unknown elf a harp. 

Haleth was surprised.  She knew that Ecthelion played the flute, but had no idea that Glorfindel had musical talent.  The three of them were discussing something in low voices.  The firelight shone on their faces, flushing their fair skin. 

It seemed to Haleth that Ecthelion was transformed into someone else, a someone who frowned and snarled.  The hair on the back of her neck rose.

She started, expecting to find someone sitting beside her, but there was no one.  She looked around in confusion, but then Ecthelion raised his flute to his lips and the music began.

The flute played a merry tune while the violin played a tremolo.  The tune quickly progressed to include the harp which kept the rhythm while the flute and the fiddle played exchanged melody, counter melody and harmony. 

Haleth was captured by the music.  As she watched the musicians, there was a movement in the corner of her eye.  She dismissed it as a stray spark from the Tale Fire, but the movement came again and again.

A butterfly of golden light fluttered out of the Tale Fire.  It hovered above the musician’s heads.  It was quickly joined by another, then another until it seemed the entire room was filled with the delicate insects. 

The music continued, growing in complexity.  The walls and pillars fell away and she found herself standing in a green meadow, surrounded by butterflies of every shape, colour and description.  There was one of impossibly bright blue, brighter than the autumn sky, brighter than Inglor’s eyes.  There was another of red and yellow and another of green and silver.  Their wings beat in time to the music, a living, ever-changing mosaic.

The melody died away, the fiddle alone carrying the fading tune.  Haleth found herself sitting indoors as the butterflies retreated to the Tale Fire.

Ecthelion came to speak to her as the hall filled with cheers and applause.

‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asked.

‘What was that?’ she answered.  ‘There were butterflies and a field and…’ she stopped.  She sounded like a lunatic. ‘I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep and dreamt.’

‘That was no dream,’ said Ecthelion.  He looked quite pleased.  ‘That was the dance of the butterflies.  It is seldom played now though at one time in Gondolin it was quite popular.  Did you enjoy it?’

So she was supposed to see butterflies? Or at least think of them?  That was encouraging.  Maybe she wasn’t quite as insane as she believed.

‘Yes.  Very much,’ she replied.

‘Splendid!  I intend to sing a song now.  Never fear, it will not be so long as to put you to sleep.’

Haleth’s protests were lost as Ecthelion stood up and called the crowd’s attention to himself.  He began to sing, his voice soaring through the dim hall.  Haleth stared up at him, her jaw slack. 

Compared to the preceding instrumental, the melody was relatively simplistic, but his clear voice compelled her to listen.  Although she could not understand all of the words, Haleth could follow the gist of it.  The song was the lament of a young man who loved a woman far above him. His pain at the certainty that his love would never be returned and the necessity of keeping his feelings secret as he would never jeopardize the friendship he had with the object of his affection. 

Haleth found herself in complete sympathy with the song’s composer.  It perfectly described her situation with Inglor.  She glanced around the room, half hoping he would appear  from the shadows. 

‘Little idiot!’

The words registered in her mind without bothering to pass through her ears.

Haleth blinked and looked away, the spell of the heart-rending song broken.  The flames of the Tale Fire leapt higher.  She had to agree with the unseen speaker; she was a fool.  What was worse, her foolishness was no longer temporary.  She would go on being a fool for all of the Ages of Arda. 

She buried her head in her hands and groaned.

Ecthelion finished his song.  Silence fell across the hall.  Haleth looked up from her bout of self-pity.

‘I have seldom heard that song performed, Lord Ecthelion,’ said Master Elrond.

‘Indeed, Master Elrond.  I hope I have not overstepped the bounds of hospitality.  The one who wrote it has been much on my mind of late,’ Ecthelion said smoothly.

‘Not at all,’ said Lady Celebrían diplomatically.  ‘My husband’s grandfather is never far from our thoughts.’ 

The charged silence relaxed as she continued.  ‘This evening seems dedicated to songs and stories which many of us are unfamiliar.  Perhaps our guest can tell us a tale of her homeland?’

Home.  The memory of her family home on the western shores of Númenor appeared in the fire. The garden, the trees, her mother coming out of the front door, her arms extended in welcome. It was all Haleth could do to not leap into the flames. 

‘The situation was less than ideal in our guest’s homeland,’ said Master Elrond.   

Haleth suddenly understood that Celebrían had been referring to her.  She was bitterly disappointed to find herself in the hall.  She forced herself to reply. ‘Yes, Master Elrond.  I am sorry but as you say, the times were not ideal.  I fear any stories I have would hardly be as edifying as those of the First Born.’

‘Surely it was not all dark.’  This came from Ecthelion who sat down beside her. ‘There must have been something.’

‘He’s as helpful as Inglor,’ Haleth thought sourly as she combed through her flawed memory. 

‘Well, there was the time,’ she began and then stopped. She and her colleagues had pilfered a lady’s jewels by accident and then had to return them. That had been amusing enough, but she did not feel comfortable telling the tale.  Everyone knew she was a thief; it would be in bad taste to admit it so bluntly.

‘There was another occasion…’ her voice trailed off.  The incident in question had involved a case of mistaken identity and a brothel.  It was hardly appropriate for the current noble company.

It was no use.  Every escapade she could remember involved deceit, indecency, violence or a combination of all three.

‘I am sorry, Lady Celebrían.  I must beg your pardon but I cannot recall any of them properly enough to tell.’

‘It is I who must apologize,’ said Lady Celebrían.  ‘Perhaps another time.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Haleth with a crooked smile.

The awkward silence returned.

‘Men are not alone,’ Master Elrond intoned. ‘The First Born have had their share of darkness and evil times.  We would all do well to remember that.’  He signaled to a minstrel who bowed and began to sing a slow ballad. 

With a shock, Haleth recognized the tale of the Darkening of the Trees.  She stared at her hands and twisted the silver ring.

‘I never cared for this song, either,’ Ecthelion whispered.

Haleth nodded, at a loss for words. 

The music continued.  Haleth’s eyes grew heavy.  She refused to play the cliché and be the snoring mortal among the Elves.  Pinching her cheeks, she leaned forward on her elbows, making herself uncomfortable enough to keep awake. 

Sleep pulled her inexorably downwards.  She looked into the fire, hoping its brilliance would keep her awake.

The dancing flames resolved themselves into tiny pictures.  There was a crowd of angry Elves.  A tall, mesmerizing individual at their centre. It had to be Fëanáro; Haleth recognized him from the tapestry she had seen in Arafinwë’s palace.  As she watched, the figure pulled out a sword and pointed it to the heavens.  This must be The Oath that was the ruin of the House of Fëanáro’s. It was chilling to watch, even from the distance of millennia.  Seven fire-bright figures leapt to Fëanáro’s side, their swords raised in salute.

Haleth flinched.   It was as if she was witnessing Ar-Pharazôn make his fateful decision to bring Sauron to Númenor. She wanted to call out to them to stop but the figures could not hear her. 

Or could they?  One of the seven turned in the direction of her silent shout.  He strode towards her, the naked blade still in his hand. 

What madness was this?  She had fallen asleep and dreamt.  But no matter how she ordered herself to awaken or at least move she was frozen in place.     

It was searching for her; she knew with a sick certainty even though it was impossible.  The incident took place thousands of years before she was born. This being of fire couldn’t know her.  It must be trying to find someone else. Except that it was heading directly for her.  She had to run, but she was frozen in place. The figure of flame stepped out of the fire, reaching for her.

With a supreme force of will, Haleth threw herself backwards, away from its grasp.

‘Little idiot!’  The words seared through her mind.

The flaming hands reached for her again.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shrieked.

And awakened to find Ecthelion looking down on her with concern.  A tide of embarrassment washed over her.  Not only had she fallen asleep, she had screamed like a frightened child.  Everyone in the hall was watching her in wordless shock.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered.  ‘It was an evil dream.  Nothing more.  Please forgive me but I think I should seek my rest now.’

She scrambled to her feet and fled the hall for the relative safety of her room.  It took many hours for her to sleep.  In her dreams she fled from a figure of flames who haunted her every step.

Haleth grimaced and shifted her weight. Elves might be very at home in trees but mortals, even former mortals, found them less than accommodating. She welcomed by dull ache in her backside; it distracted her from her melancholy mood.

Despite the warm welcome of Master Elrond and Lady Celebrían, regardless of the familiarity of speaking her mother-tongue, Haleth had to reluctantly admit that she was not happy on Tol Eressëa. The Exiles were more familiar than the noble, stoic Elves of Tirion, but they were not her people. She had more in common with the Ringbearers than any of Master Elrond's folk. Their stories of the Shire were the opposite of heroic; tales of foibles that ended in gentle laughter. The contrast with the epic, tragic tales of the Elves could not have been greater and it only heightened Haleth's awareness of being hopelessly out of place.

The Blessed Realm, no matter how beautiful, was not her home. Given the chance, she would have gleefully traded eternity in Aman for a day of tramping through the empty miles of Eriador with Inglor.

Her heart ached with the thought of Inglor. She had seen neither hide nor hair of him since the night they had quarreled. Except that wasn't true. Inglor hadn't argued at all. In fact, for once he had done exactly what she asked and left her alone. It was typical of Inglor to do something she hadn't really wanted him to do.

He had abandoned her, at her own request, in a place she didn't belong.

All she had left was an uncomfortable perch high in a tree and a shadow of a home that did not exist anymore.

She heaved a deep sigh.

'You sound most unhappy.'

Haleth started forward at the unexpected visitor's words. She lost her balance and slid off the branch, her hands scrambling ineffectually at the bark. She looked down. The ground was very, very far away.

Strong hands grasped her waist and settled her back onto her perch. Ecthelion had silently climbed the tree while she had been brooding. With great effort she controlled the desire to punch him.

'You startled me,' she snapped.

'I apologize. That was not my intent,' Ecthelion replied.

The smooth, calm response further irritated Haleth.

'Lord Ecthelion, why are you here?' It was a pointless question. All she expected was a polite smile and a pleasant non-answer.

Ecthelion stared into the hazy East.

'I came to find things dear to me. Neither was ever truly mine but one was in my care.'

Haleth's breath caught in her throat. He had answered, but the reply was so cryptic that it gave no information at all. How very typical of an Elf. She had an eternity to grow accustomed to non-answers. Judging by the sheer irritation it caused, it was unlikely to ever happen.

'What happened to it?' she heard herself say, surprised that the words could force their way out through gritted teeth.

'I was careless and I lost it.' He said this with smile that did not reach his eyes.

'Lost?' asked Haleth, her pulse quickening. 'You are looking for it. I can help.'

'No,' he said with a sad smile. 'That which I seek is gone forever, I fear. It shall not return until Arda is remade, and perhaps not even then.'

A tide of unreasonable disappointment washed over Haleth. Why did people insist on giving her a purpose and then tearing it away?

'Lady Silmariën…'

'Haleth,' she barked.

'Have you ever seen Gondolin the Fair?'

'No,' she answered. The Elves always forgot that she wasn't one of them. Why did people think she had been to places that had disappeared beneath the waves an Age before she had been born?

'It was a city like no other; a gem of sparkling white set within the green Vale of Tumladen.'

Haleth had a vision of a white, shining city shimmering in a green valley encircled by mountains, its towers gleaming in the sunlight. It seemed as real as the branch she was sitting on.

There was a low rumble overhead and the light dimmed. She glanced upwards, expecting to find storm clouds billowing out of the west, but the sky was a perfect azure and empty of clouds.

'I thought,' she said slowly, hanging tightly to the tree branch and fighting vertigo. 'That is the songs always led me to believe that Gondolin was built as a memory of Tirion.'

'You know our songs well,' said Ecthelion, genuinely pleased. 'It is true that Tirion is above all cities of Men and Elves in beauty. Yet there is more to a city than structures of stone and wood. Is that not so, Haleth?'

'Yes,' she agreed, silently amazed at how conversations with Elves always went in odd directions.

'What other thing makes a city?' asked Ecthelion.

'A city is her people,' replied Haleth, recalling the empty, echoing streets of Mithlond.

'Just so. A city is her people. You may have noticed in the time you spent there, Tirion is sadly lacking for people.'

Haleth nodded. There were streets where all of the houses and shops were empty. The building and grounds were all carefully tended…for no one.

'I avoided those,' she said, shuddering.

'I remember the laughter and song that once rang in those places,' he said wistfully.

'That only makes the silence all the worse,' said Haleth, gazing at the smudge in the eastern sea. Was Armenolos above the waves? What would it look like? Homesickness swelled in her heart. She forced it away.

'Is that why you took me for a picnic? As an excuse to be away from Tirion?'

'Not entirely, no,' he said. 'I was curious about my friends' child.'

'You mean Idril and Tuor.' Haleth shook her head. 'My Lord Ecthelion I am many, many generations removed from my illustrious ancestors. I must have been a grave disappointment.'

'Very far from it,' he said.

'Master Elrond is much closer kin to them.'

'He was another one of the reasons that brought me here.'

Visiting Master Elrond and escaping the silent streets of Tirion were very good reasons for a journey. Haleth had travelled further for less. But if this was true, why wasn't the entire population of Tirion on Tol Eressëa?

'What else?' Haleth demanded.

Ecthelion cocked his head, grinned and shrugged.

It almost disarmed Haleth.

Almost.

'Forgive me, Lord Ecthelion, for the reasons you gave me are sound enough for me, but I have been told that the Elves of Tirion have never, until now, visited those upon Tol Eressëa.'

'Why are Glorfindel and I different?' he asked lightly.

Haleth nodded and wished he wasn't so handsome.

'You know the songs of my people,' he said, his grey eyes seeking the east.

'I am familiar with those that touch my family's history,' she said, disappointed by the oblique response.

'Then you are familiar with the White Lady?'

Haleth combed through her tangled memory. There had been a ghost called the White Lady. She had haunted her cousins' ancestral home. How her brother and older cousins had loved to frighten her with threats to do as they said lest the White Lady take her away. There had also been an Inn called the White Lady in Ondosto where she and her colleagues had met.

Neither of those things would have been mentioned in the songs Ecthelion was referring to. He would have gone to Mandos many years before either ghost or inn had existed.

Haleth fought the urge to bang her head against the bole of the tree. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to treating ancient history as current events.

'The White Lady of the Noldor. Lady Aredhel,' she said, proud to have made the connection.

Ecthelion nodded. 'The only daughter of Lord Nolofinwë and the Lady Anairë and the sister of my King,' he said, his voice barely a whisper. 'It was my task to protect her. I failed in the most abject manner.'

That had been so long ago! Haleth opened her mouth to say as much and then thought better of it. Who was she to lecture someone else about self-forgiveness? She had never forgiven herself for living when her countrymen had been destroyed.

'I am sorry, Lord Ecthelion,' she said, laying her hand on his arm. 'From what I know of the White Lady of the Noldor, she did not want to be protected.'

'Simply because one refuses protection and counsel does not mean one does not require it,' he said with quiet finality.

'Do you believe the Lady Aredhel is on Tol Eressëa?' she asked.

'No. I am quite certain she is still within the Halls of Mandos.'

'Then…why are you here?' Haleth asked, thoroughly confused.

'I mean to protect the descendants of my King and liege lord,' he said stoutly.

'I'm sorry, Lord Ecthelion, but I believe Master Elrond can take care of himself. Besides, there is hardly any danger in the Blessed Realm.'

Ecthelion shook his head and laughed. 'This from a person who nearly fell to her death several heartbeats ago!'

'What? Me? You mean me?' Haleth demanded.

'Are there any other descendants of King Turukáno?'

'I'm led to believe there are quite a few in Middle-earth who may actually be in need of your valiant protection. Do you intend to help them?' she demanded, hoping he would agree.

'Alas, I may not return to Middle-earth. The way is closed,' he said sadly.

'I don't need your protection,' growled Haleth.

'I beg your pardon but you most certainly do. You nearly tumbled out of this tree.'

'Only because I didn't hear you coming. You did that purposely, didn't you? Snuck up on me so I'd startle and nearly fall so you could rescue me. You planned it all along, just to prove I need your protection.  Which I don't!'

The accusation was meant to make him angry. Instead he sat back and laughed.

'You did plan it all along!' she roared.

'Peace, Lady Silmariën.'

'Haleth.'

'Lady Haleth then.'

'I am no lady.'

'Oh my dear, you most certainly are. I cannot begin to tell you how much you remind me of the Lady Írissë.'

'Now you're delusional,' growled Haleth when she had worked out that Írissë was the same person as Aredhel.

'Not your appearance,' he said.

'Well thank-you for noticing the difference! What gave it away? The grey hair or the wrinkles?'

'But your words and your actions,' he said, ignoring her sarcasm. 'I cannot count how many times I had this very conversation with her.'

Haleth was working up a truly devastating retort when another voice called up from below.

'I take it you found her?'

Haleth looked down. A fair elvish face framed in blonde hair gazed upwards. For half an instant she thought it was Inglor and her heart leapt in her chest.

'Yes, Glorfindel. I have found her,' Ecthelion called down merrily as Haleth struggled to swallow her disappointment.

'Splendid. Can you convince her to come down? The evening meal will be served soon.'

Haleth thought of the old songs. Glorfindel had also been numbered among Lady Írissë's protectors.

'Oh NO. Not you, too!' she wailed.

Haleth sat across from Master Elrond, her knuckles white on the arms of the chair.  Several long weeks had passed since she had acquired her two unwanted protectors.  Things had not gone well.

Elrond examined her silently.  There was no need for him to speak; concern was plain on his face.  It was hard to blame him for his worry; Haleth had seen herself in a reflecting pool and the image had been unsettling; fever-bright eyes surrounded by dark circles had stared back at her.    To make matters worse, her eye had developed a twitch. 

‘How may I help you?’ he finally said.

‘I need something to make me sleep,’ she replied.  Her eye twitched violently.

‘You are having difficulty sleeping?’ he asked.

‘No.  These dark circles under my eyes are the latest fashion rage in Tirion. Do you like them?  Mine are the biggest and darkest,’ she thought.

‘No.  I am not having difficulty sleeping. Saying that I have difficulty presumes I sleep at all.  I don’t,’ she said in a clipped voice.  Her eye twitched again for emphasis.

‘Forgive me Haleth, but your eye?’ he asked.

‘It’s nothing new.  It does this when I can’t sleep.  You can ask Inglor,’ she snapped. ‘Or you can if he ever decides to show his face again.’

‘For how long have you been unable to sleep?’ he asked.

‘Since I acquired my two valiant protectors,’ she said.

Elrond sat back.  A tiny line appeared in his forehead. 

‘You’re puzzled,’ she said.

‘I am surprised.  Most folk would find it easier to rest in such a situation.’

‘Begging your pardon but I very much doubt that, Master Elrond.’

‘How so?’

‘They’re everywhere!’ Haleth wailed. 

‘Haleth, it is hardly possible for two people to be everywhere.  Even the Valar…’

‘You know what I mean,’ she cried, leaping out of her chair.  ‘I can’t turn around without tripping over one, the other or both.’ 

‘Haleth, please.’

‘They’re in here, aren’t they?’  She pulled up short, her gaze darted from one side of the room to the other. 

‘Haleth, I can assure you…’ Elrond began as Haleth ran around the room, checking behind the furniture for lurking Elves.

‘Get out of here!  This is a private conversation!’ she said, stamping her foot.

‘Haleth, there is no one here but us.’ 

She glared at him from beneath a heavy desk. 

‘This is my home.  No one would dare to breach my privacy.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said reluctantly.  Her eyes narrowed.  ‘Are you certain there are no secret passages?  I thought I just saw the eyes move.’

Elrond followed the direction of her gaze.  She was glaring at a portrait of his brother.  He swallowed his fear.  ‘I am sorry, brother,’ he thought. ‘This descendant of yours is most difficult.’

‘The eyes did not move,’ he insisted as Haleth shoved a chair beneath the picture and climbed on top of it to glare at the portrait, her nose almost touching the canvas.

‘That will not be necessary,’ he said as she reached out to touch the eyes.

‘I don’t know.  I saw some tapestries in Tirion.  They moved by themselves,’ she muttered, ignoring his command.

‘This was wrought in Middle-earth.  It does not move.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.  To Master Elrond’s relief she got off the chair.   His relief was short-lived. Haleth’s face twisted in anger. She launched herself at the window.

‘They’re under the window, eavesdropping.   Get away from here you nosy overbearing…’

‘Haleth, that is quite enough.  Come away from the window.’ 

‘Pain-in-the-neck, overweaning.’  She was loud enough to be heard in Tirion.

‘Enough!’  Elrond physically dragged her away from the window and placed her in a chair.  He slammed and bolted the shutters.  The room was plunged into darkness.  He could hear her rasping breath.

‘Now I can’t see anything,’ she said.

‘Attend a moment.  I shall light a candle,‘ said Elrond, who could see perfectly well in the dim light.

‘No!  No.  This is better.’ She said, turning her head this way and that, peering around the room.  ‘They glow in the dark.  That’s how I know where they are at night. The light gives them away.’ 

Elrond was relieved to have restored calm. Then he frowned.  Haleth was perched on the edge of his chair.  In his haste he had placed her in the first available seat and it had been his.  He briefly considered asking her to move but dismissed the idea.  She would need light to see and she did not want light.  Given her volatile mood, it would best to not excite her further.  He reluctantly sat in the visitor’s chair. 

‘You cannot sleep,’ he said.

‘Not a wink,’ she chirped.  ‘Could you sleep when someone was constantly watching you?’ 

‘Haleth, I hardly think that either Ecthelion or Glorfindel is constantly watching you.’

‘There you would be wrong,’ she said, an unsettling grin on her face.  Elrond winced at the expression. Her eye twitched.    

‘They’re always there; one or the other or both.  It’s a big game for them. Let’s annoy the mortal.’

‘Do you have proof of this?’

‘I was in the library the other day.  I could have sworn I was alone.  I dropped a scroll.  Ecthelion appeared out of nowhere and caught it before it could hit my foot.’ 

Elrond considered for half a moment.  ‘I hardly think that means they are always watching you.’

‘They won’t let me fish.  They say I can’t be trusted with a hook. Then they took my knives,’ she hissed.

‘What use do you have for a knife?’ he asked lightly, grateful that the darkness would hide his relief.  In her current frame of mind, he did not trust Haleth with a blade, either.

‘I use it to feed myself!  How am I supposed to eat without a small knife?  Do you know what Glorfindel said when I asked him that very question?’  She stormed on, not waiting for an answer, her eye twitching violently.  ‘He said that he would take care of it.  Now all of my food is served in bite-sized chunks as though I was a helpless young child!’

‘I can understand how that would be…’ began Elrond.  Haleth had not been at the shared meals in several days.  Now he knew the reason for her absence.

‘Completely demeaning!  Yes!  Yes it is!  I expect him to take away my spoon and feed me next!’

‘That will not happen. I shall speak with Lord Glorfindel and the kitchen staff.  This is not an acceptable way to treat a guest.’

‘Thank-you, Master Elrond,’ said Haleth, somewhat mollified.

‘Still, I do not understand how the accusation that Lords Ecthelion and Glorfindel are always watching you necessarily follows from the incidents you describe.  I have known Lord Glorfindel for many years.  He is a most honourable individual.’

‘Is he,’ said a vastly unconvinced Haleth. 

‘Yes, he is, as it Lord Ecthelion,’ Elrond insisted.

‘They stole my bath several nights back,’ she announced.

‘And this upset you?’ said Elrond, grateful that Haleth could not see his facial expression.

‘Oh, I see.  Yes, yes.  Who is the thief to be angry when someone robs her,’ she growled. ‘I will tell you one thing, Master Elrond, I never stole anyone’s bath.’  She chuckled.  ‘I did take the King of Harad’s razor.  You should have seen him looking for it! Still, Master Elrond, I never stole anyone’s bath.’

‘Why did they not want to allow you your bath?’ Elrond asked.

‘They claimed it was too hot and that I would scald myself. I’m not an elf, Master Elrond, I can’t always bathe in a stream.  I need hot water and soap to cleanse myself properly. 

‘And how do you know it was not too hot?’

‘Because I was testing the water with my arm when they both broke into the room.  First they announced the water was too hot. Then they each picked up an end of the tub and marched off with it.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Elrond, although he already knew the answer. It was the talk of the household. 

‘I tried to explain to these two great Elf lords that the water was just the right temperature and may I have my bath back, please,’ she said, her voice stiff with dignity.

‘That’s odd.  The way I heard the story you screeched like a Pelagir fish-wife.’ 

‘Can you blame me?’ she demanded, her voice rising. ‘They stole my bath right before I was about to get into it.  What would have happened if they’d arrived after I’d gotten into the water?  Would they have pulled me out of the tub, naked? Would they have dumped me and the water outside upon the grass where everyone could see me?’ 

She stopped, fists clenched, and visibly fought to regain self-control. 

‘Do you condone having your guests treated this way?’

Thunderous silence fell upon the room. 

‘No,’ said Elrond.  ‘I shall have to have a word with Lords Ecthelion and Glorfindel.’

 ‘And my knives?’ she demanded.

‘You are in no mood to have sharp objects at your disposal.’

‘I am a thief, Master Elrond.  Not an assassin,’ she said, hurt.

‘I know it well, Haleth, but now is not the time.  I shall make a potion to help you to sleep and I personally guarantee that neither Ecthelion nor Glorfindel will watch you in your private rooms.’

‘Yes, Master Elrond.  Thank-you, Master Elrond.’

‘Haleth, there is another matter we must discuss.’

Haleth jumped out of the chair, her face filled with panic.  ‘Inglor.  Have you heard from him?  Is he in trouble?  Is he hurt?  I must go to him.’

‘Peace, Haleth, I have heard nothing of Inglor.’

‘Oh,’ she said, subsiding into his chair. ‘What do you want from me?’ 

‘Haleth, I have worried for you since you first came to Aman.  Do you remember how you came to be here?’

‘Only what you told me; that Inglor brought me here,’ she said with a shrug.

‘Does it not disturb you?  Not knowing what happened to you?’

Haleth laughed without mirth. ‘Master Elrond, the gaps in my memory are large and numerous as the dark spaces between the stars.  Many of my memories are less than pleasant. It is likely a kindness that they escape me.’

Elrond was not certain which he found my disturbing; the answer or the matter-of-factly manner of the reply.

‘Haleth, I would have you go to a place called Lórien. I believe it is there and only there you will find the healing you need.  Have you ever heard of it?’

‘Lórien?  The Golden Wood? It is in Middle-earth, is it not? You want to send me back to Middle-earth?’

Elrond tried to ignore the hope in her voice. 

‘Not the Golden Wood, Haleth.  I suspect you would find its former splendour sadly diminished.  No, I am referring to the Gardens of Lórien on this side of the Sundering Sea.  It is the home of Irmó, the Vala of dreams.   It is a wondrous place.  The trees are truly ancient and the flowers that bloom at their feet grant peace and rest to those who draw near them.  The paths that run through the gardens have not changed since the light of the Two Trees shone.  The streams are cool and bountiful; their waters give clarity of mind superior to that given by the Springs of Ivrin.  There are guides, the servants of Irmó and Estë, who help you heal your own hurts.  It is the only place where you may be made whole.’

Haleth was chewing her lip and frowning.  Elrond doubted he had convinced her. 

‘You have healed my wounds quite well,’ she said.

‘I do not speak of physical wounds, Haleth.’ The admission of failure was difficult.  The words came out harsher than he meant.

‘Oh. Those,’ she said dismissively. ‘Everyone has them.  They aren’t important.’

‘Haleth, they are more important than you believe.’

She rolled her eyes.

‘Frodo’s wounds are deeper than mine.  You haven’t sent him to Lórien.’

‘Frodo is a mortal.  Direct exposure to the Golden Wood could be deadly to him.’

‘Master Elrond, I am mortal.  No one seems overly concerned about my welfare.’

‘Haleth, you are no longer mortal.’

Her grip on the chair arms tightened until her knuckles turned white.

‘Actually, yes I am.  I think like one, I mean,’ she said. 

‘And that must change,’ he said gently.

‘It will, given time, if it has to, I guess,’ she said with a shrug.

‘The transition is not so simple, especially given your state of mind.’

‘My state of mind will be just fine once you’re called my protectors to heel,’ she snapped.

‘Haleth,’ he began.

‘Why is everyone in such a hurry for me to become an Elf?’ she exploded. ‘Why must I be just like all of you?  Resigned to nothing but regret for the rest of my existence?’

‘Forgive me, Haleth, how is that different from your existence now?’

Haleth’s rage melted like the morning dew.

‘Not at all, really. At least it was temporary before,’ she muttered, her head bowed.

They were silent for several moments, Elrond hoping for further explanation. 

‘You will at least give it some consideration?’ he asked when it became apparent she would say nothing more.

‘Yes, Master Elrond.  I most certainly will,’ said Haleth gravely, not bothering to elaborate what, exactly, she would consider.

‘Good.  I am glad to hear it. You will be whole again, one day, Haleth.’

She smiled nervously.  ‘May I have some light so I can find the door?’

Elrond opened the door to his study and ushered Haleth out after giving her a lantern to light her way.

‘You will give serious thought to visiting Lórien,’ said Master Elrond.

‘I can promise that I will give the matter very serious thought,’ said Haleth, not bothering to explain exactly what she would consider.

‘Splendid.  We shall be your escort.’

Haleth froze as Ecthelion stepped out of the shadows.  Glorfindel followed, a little behind.   Her hands knotted into fists. Her eye twitched uncontrollably.  ‘I told you they were listening,’ she told Elrond in a sing-song voice, rocking back on her heels.

‘Yes,’ said Elrond, his jaw tightening.  ‘Haleth, I think it would be best if you went back to your room.  Try to rest.  I will send the sleeping potion presently.’

She stood rigid, glaring at Ecthelion, her eyes aflame with a maniacal brightness.  Elrond was grateful that Glorfindel had had the foresight to take away her weapons.

‘Haleth,’ he said, grasping her shoulder.  She leapt away from him as though she’d been burned.  ‘No harm shall come to you under my roof.  You have my word.  Now go to your room and rest. Try to sleep.’

She shuddered violently, striving to regain a measure self-control.

‘Yes, Master Elrond,’ she mumbled before fleeing up the hallway.  

Ecthelion made to follow.

‘Lord Ecthelion, if I may have a moment of your time, please,’ said Elrond in a voice that would brook no dissent.

‘Of course, Master Elrond.’  Ecthelion spoke gracefully but he was watching Haleth’s retreating back with grave concern.  He exchanged a quick glance with Glorfindel.

‘And you as well, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower,’ said Elrond.

Haleth barely heard the door close behind her.  She stopped, struggling with temptation to eavesdrop while Elrond royally dressed down her two valiant protectors. She had never seen Elrond Half-Elven so angry.  His expression of barely contained fury had allowed her to regain self-control.  They couldn’t both be angry and Elrond’s ire was for more effective than hers.

She forced herself to walk slowly to not draw too much attention to herself and considered the latest complication.  Lórien sounded perfectly awful.  She was already bored out of her senses.  Lórien was sure to bore the remaining fragments of her mind to death.  She could picture herself sitting under a tree, staring straight ahead and drooling for all the rest of eternity.  Hopefully some kind soul would be there to occasionally mop her up.

No.  She wouldn’t go.  She couldn’t!  But how would she get away? There was no hope of eluding the watchfulness of Ecthelion and Glorfindel.

Except that both of them were currently occupied with Master Elrond.  She had been given a limited time opportunity to escape; she had to make the best of it.

She reached the door to the garden. A fine mist hung in the air, blanketing the familiar landscape.  The damp weather allowed her to sprint across the garden; everyone would be indoors. 

Heart pounding, she closed the door to her room.  She located her travelling clothes and the pack she had kept prepared.  Throwing her new shoes under the bed, she retrieved her moth-eaten boots. 

She felt a brief pang of guilt for abusing Master Elrond’s hospitality.  With a muttered curse she pulled an ornate candlestick that she had taken from his dining room out of her pack and left it in the centre of her bed as a silent apology. 

Elrond couldn’t have that much to say to Ecthelion and Glorfindel.  If she was going to escape, she had to go now.  Taking a deep breath, she left the room without a backwards glance.

The hallway was empty.  She passed along like a ghost, the old habit of stealth returning.  With a great deal of luck she managed to get out of Elrond’s garden without being noticed. 

Now she stood at the trail she and Inglor had followed when they have first come to Elrond’s new home and wondered which way she should go.  Tol Eressëa was a small island; there was nowhere to hide.  Returning to the mainland was just as bad.  There was more land but she would have to pass directly by Tirion.  A squirrel could not move in the vicinity of Túna without the elves of Tirion being aware of it.  She would be stopped and dragged off to Lórien before her eye could twitch.

There was one place she could go.  A place beyond the Blessed Realm where no Elf would dare set foot.  A place that she had believed gone forever until she had caught a glimpse in the eastern sea.  A place that haunted her dreams.

‘I’m going home,’ she muttered.  She raced into the east.

Her ears strained for the smallest sound of pursuit. The only audible noise was the patter of the raindrops upon the leaves.  Not that she would ever hear the light footed elves until they were directly upon her. She glanced over her shoulder.  There was nothing but the silver ribbon of the road and the dark trees behind her.  Her mood lifted. She might get away after all.  She would need to find a place to hide before dawn broke, but that wasn’t for a few hours yet.

Heartened, she turned forward.

Someone very familiar was standing directly in her path.

‘Haleth, where are you going?’ Inglor asked.

Haleth skidded to a halt, gaping at him in disbelief. She almost slapped him. ‘What do you care where I’m going!’

‘For a walk,’ she said shrilly.  ‘There’s no crime in going for a walk is there? You certainly come and go as you please without the courtesy of informing anyone.’

‘No,’ Inglor said slowly.  ‘But you do seem to have covered quite a distance from Master Elrond’s home and I cannot help but notice that you are heading directly eastward.’

‘I didn’t realize it was forbidden to walk eastward,’ she countered, dodging around him.  ‘One would think the western coast of Valinor would be getting rather crowded by now.’

‘Haleth, every time you walk eastward it ends with a stolen ship. Where are you going?’

Home!  She almost said it, nearly screamed it.  Her entire being yearned for home with an ache she had not believed possible.  But if she admitted her destination to Inglor, she was sure to be packed off to Lórien. She needed a lie; an explanation that did not sound insane.

‘I’m going to search for Idril and Tuor,’ she blurted out defiantly. 

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Inglor. 

Belatedly Haleth realized that the lie was only a fraction less crazy than the truth.

‘I said I’m going to search for Idril and Tuor.  They might be somewhere on the Enchanted Isles.’ 

‘Haleth, they sailed west thousands of years ago. For all that Tuor was very skilled as a sailor, the ocean is very large,’ he said gently.

‘Think of how happy Anairë would be to see Idril,’ Haleth countered.  ‘And it would give Ecthelion and Glorfindel someone else to guard,’  she added darkly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Inglor in his familiar tone of calm puzzlement.

Haleth’s breath caught in her throat. 

‘Is something wrong, Haleth?’ he asked solicitously.

‘No.  Well, yes, but I’ve missed you, Inglor.’

He smiled sadly.  It tore at Haleth’s heart.

‘You did?’ he asked.

‘Of course I did!’

‘You told me to go away,’ he said.

‘But you didn’t give me the chance to tell you to come back,’ she countered.

His expression became more befuddled.  ‘But if I was gone, how can you tell me to return?’

‘Exactly!’

Inglor shook his head.  ‘You mentioned Ecthelion and Glorfindel?’

‘Oh.  Them,’ said Haleth sourly.  Leave it to Inglor to ruin a special moment.  ‘They’ve appointed themselves as my protectors.’

‘They have?’ he asked. 

Haleth pulled up short and examined him.  His expression was as calm as ever but his eyes glinted. 

‘Yes, they have,’ she said.

‘And what is your opinion of this?’

Haleth’s eye twitched violently.

‘I see,’ he said with the barest hint of a smile.

‘Speaking of which, we should hurry,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.  ‘They’ve probably found my trail by now.’

‘Your trail?’

‘I left Master Elrond’s home without announcing my departure,’ she explained.

‘Haleth, what have you done?’ he asked.

‘Nothing!’  She clamped her hand over her mouth, silently cursing herself for being so loud. ‘Not this time.’

‘Then why did you leave?’

Haleth’s heart pounded in her ears.  Inglor was an elf.  Given the way she had treated him, he would likely agree with the others.  He was directly beside her.  She couldn’t outrun him and she couldn’t evade him. 

But he was her friend.  Maybe she could count on that.  Maybe.  It wasn’t as though she had a choice.

‘They want to send me to Lórien,’ she said tightly.  How would he respond? Would he agree with the others?  Maybe he would bring her there himself.  The silence stretched to an eternity as they walked through the soft rain.

‘I see,’ he said quietly.  ‘And do you wish to go?’

‘No.’ The reply sounded more sullen than defiant.

‘Very well. Haleth, will you take my hand?’ asked Inglor, extending his hand to her.

‘Why?’ she asked.  He was intending to drag her to Lórien himself.

‘Because it is a lovely night and I am most happy to see you again.’

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, her voice heavy with suspicion.

‘East, of course,’ he said with a smile.

‘Or would you rather wait until the others caught up with us?’ he asked when she did not move.

That was enough for Haleth.  She took his hand.  They continued eastward, moving through the mist. 

‘I would ask you to reconsider. The seas surrounding the Enchanted Isles are dangerous waters.’

‘What?’ asked Haleth, who had completely forgotten their previous conversation.

‘You are intending to look for Idril and Tuor, are you not?’ he asked.

‘Yes.  Yes.  Of course,’ she said with more confidence than she felt.

‘Then you must take care.  The weather is uncertain and the sea has many currents and reefs.  The islands have never been properly mapped.’

‘Even better; I shall map them as I search,’ she said, warming to the topic. It was very pleasant to be holding Inglor’s hand.  Why had they never held hands in Middle-earth?  

‘You will run out of supplies long before you reach all of the islands,’ he said.

‘Then I will go out so far, searching and mapping as I go, and return to Tol Eressëa before I run out of fresh water and food.  When I go out again I will not spend as much time on the islands I have already searched.  That way I can go further.  Eventually I will have searched them all, north and south,’ she said.  The mist gathered around them.  Inglor’s grip on her hand tightened. 

‘But the islands are still enchanted,’ he said. 

‘How so?’ asked a very distracted Haleth. She was quite disoriented in the thick fog.  Distant thunder rattled over their heads.

‘If anyone as much as sets foot on one they will fall into a deep, deep sleep.’

Haleth frowned and tapped her finger against her lips. Compared to an eternity of forced inactivity in Lórien, sleeping until the end of Arda didn’t seem so bad.  ‘That is fortunate because they would be near the shore.  I won’t need to explore every inch of every island, just the coasts.  It will speed up the search immensely.’

‘I’m sure I could get supplies from Master Elrond.  They’re his grandparents, after all.’

‘Haleth.’

‘I’ll still need a ship, though,’ she sailed on without acknowledging him. ‘Borrowing one no longer seems to be an option.’

‘Haleth!’

‘Yes, Inglor?’ she smiled innocently.

‘You may use my ship,’ he said.

‘Thank-you, Inglor!’ she cried, throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek.

‘Let me finish!’ he said. ‘You may use my ship only under two conditions.’

‘And what are those?’ she asked, instantly suspicious.

‘That I shall accompany you,’ he said.

‘Very well, if you are set upon it, but only you,’ she said, this would delay her going home, but eventually she would get away without him.  ‘And what is the second condition?’

‘That you tell me,’ he began then stopped.

‘That I tell you what?’ she asked.  He wasn’t going to tell her where he’d been.  He never offered any information.  She could play the game as well.

He searched her eyes for a long, long moment.  Again Haleth wondered what he was hoping to find there. 

‘That you tell me in which direction we shall seek first; north or south,’ he finally said.

Haleth, hand steady on the tiller of the elven ship, watched the expanse of sea before her. Her eyes turned to the dark smudge in the eastern sea. Númenor pulled her like a lode stone.  She walked the familiar land each night in her dreams.  If only all of her dreams were so pleasant.  Each night seemed to bring new nightmares of hideous beasts and a tall, dark individual who shouted shook her until her teeth rattled.  

The sail cracked in the breeze. Silently cursing, Haleth corrected the ship’s course. She had to pay more attention to her immediate surroundings.  Each time her concentration failed she would steer to the east.  The bad habit would reveal her true intentions to Inglor.

She glanced in his direction. Inglor was bent over his work; a detailed map of the last island they had passed.  It had been little more than a rocky outcrop with several brave trees upon it, their trunks slanted in the direction of the prevailing west winds. 

The Enchanted Isles were proving far less interesting than Haleth had hoped.  While some were large enough to accommodate a small wood, most were little bigger than the island they had just skirted.  Nothing moved upon them except for the birds and there had been no sign of any person, sleeping or awaking, on any of them.  There had not even been so much as the rotting remains of a wrecked ship although plenty of reefs and rocks lurked just below the water’s surface waiting to ruin an unwary sailor.

The sail cracked again.  Haleth adjusted the tiller.

She glanced at the silver ring that still rested on her index finger.  The metal had lost its luster of late, the bright silver darkening to a foggy grey.  It must be because of the salty air, it could have nothing in common with Inglor’s deteriorating mood.

For the first times since she had met him, Inglor was not his mild tempered self.  The scholar who took delight in explaining the whys and the wherefores and the extended, detailed history of any subject Haleth was foolish enough to indicate an interest in had grown taciturn to the point of melancholy.

Where this would formerly have set her scrambling to give him cheer, now Haleth had no idea what to say or do. Resentment and the revelation of the possible meaning of the silver ring kept her tongue-tied.

Grasping the tiller with her opposite hand, she raised the ring to her lips and blew upon it until the dull silver clouded further with the mist of her breath.  She vigorously rubbed it against her shirt to polish it, half hoping that it would improve Inglor’s mood.

Holding up her hand, she critically examined the silver band, turning it this way and that to catch the rays of the sun.

‘Turn the ship to the north east.’

The instructions caught her off guard.  She glanced at him with a guilty expression and dropped her hand to the tiller.  The silver was as murky as ever.

‘Is there another island up there?’ she asked to make conversation.

‘Yes.’

‘Is it larger than the last one?’ she asked hopefully.

‘That is my hope,’ he said.  ‘Ossë grows restless.’

~*~

Elves, Haleth reflected, had an amazing talent for understatement.  The thought skittered through her mind as the ship climbed a mountain of water and plunged down the opposite side with sickening speed only to immediately climb the next wave. 

Rain teemed from the inky blackness of the sky. Water surged into the ship from above and from the sides, threatening to swamp the tiny speck upon the ocean. Inglor clung grimly to the oars, fighting to keep the ship in line with the waves as Haleth, soaked to the skin, bailed for all she was worth. 

If this was a restless Ossë, she would hate to encounter of an angry Ossë.

The ship was poised at the crest of an enormous wave.  Inglor shouted to her. Haleth only knew because of the movement of his lips for his words were torn away by the howling wind. 

Haleth knew it would be a miracle for their tiny ship to survive.  She bailed water as hard as she could.  But for every bucketful she tossed over the side, two more poured in to take its place. 

The relentless roaring of the wind suddenly changed.  Haleth risked a glance behind her.  There was a wall of white, roiling water directly ahead of them.

‘What have I done? We’re going to die and it’s my fault!’ She cursed the foolishness that had driven her to the open ocean.  If only she had followed Master Elrond’s advice and gone quietly to Lórien instead of setting to sea and taking Inglor with her.

She could have told Inglor her true purpose at any time during their voyage but her fear and pride had kept her silent.

And what was the source of this paralyzing dread?  A tiny band of silver. 

‘And why did he never speak to me of it?’ demanded a rebellious part of her mind.    ‘He could have raised the subject as easily as me but he elected not to.’

Another horrible thought occurred to her. 

Maybe he had not broached the subject because, as far as he was concerned, there was no subject to broach.  Maybe the ring was nothing more than a token of friendship. 

If that was the case, and the more Haleth thought of it, the more she was convinced it was so, her groundless fear would be the death of them both. 

Inglor was barely visible in the murk, his hair plastered to his head, his clothing soaked.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried as the wall of water crashed over their heads.

The roaring unexpectedly abated. Haleth stared around, surprised to still be alive.  The waves were much lower and no longer threatened to swamp the boat.

What had happened?

‘Keep bailing!’ Inglor cried.  He searched around frantically for a bucket.  When none came to hand he scooped the water out with his clasped hands.

The realization that they were going to survive slowly seeped into Haleth’s awareness.  She sat in stunned disbelief, too shocked to move.

‘Haleth!’ Inglor shouted.

The sound of her name brought her back to herself.  The boat was riding dangerously low with water half way to the gunwales.

She filled the bucket, tossed the water over the side and filled it again.  Inglor located a mug and added his efforts to hers. 

How long they worked Haleth could not tell.  She moved without thinking until Inglor touched her arm.

‘You may stop.  The danger, for the moment, is passed.’

Haleth took stock of their surroundings.  The ship was in a sheltered, natural harbour.  Waves crashed against the entrance, throwing plumes high into the air.  That was the curtain of water they had passed through.

The rain had abated but they were both soaked to the skin.  A quick glance around the boat showed that many of their supplies had been washed overboard.  They were many leagues from home and far from any hope of aid, but they were alive.

Haleth glanced at the silver ring and bit her lip.  This was it.  They weren’t dead.  She would ask.

‘Inglor,’ she began, before her resolve failed.

‘Yes?’ he said; his calmness completely at odds with their recent experience.

The words weren’t difficult. She could say them in two and a half languages but her lips completely refused to form them.

‘You’re soaked,’ she said.

‘As are you,’ he said mildly.  ‘Perhaps we should search out some dry clothing for you.’

‘I’m sure it would all be wet,’ said Haleth, unhappy at the change of subject.

‘It could be a little less wet,’ he said, looking concerned. ‘Do you believe you may become ill?’

‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, not caring. 

‘We should not hazard the chance,’ he said.  He turned to fiddle with one of the few remaining chests.

Opportunity was slipping away almost as quickly as Haleth’s courage.

No.  She would not hide behind fear.  The worst he could say was that he saw her as a friend; that was hardly a bad thing.  Granted, it would break her heart into thousands of tiny pieces, but she would be more than happy to have Inglor as a friend.

‘Inglor, there is something I must ask you.’  She placed her hands over his.

He regarded her hands with mild curiosity and, perhaps, she flattered herself to think, a wistful glance at the silver ring.

‘Yes?’ he asked when she remained silent.

Why was it impossible to think when those blue eyes gazed into hers? ‘That was a fine bit of sailing,’ she said, defeated once again.

‘Thank-you,’ he replied.  He attempted to move but she caught his hands again.

‘Was that all?’ he asked. 

‘Inglor, this ring,’ she said.  ‘The one you gave to me in Dale…’  Her voice trailed into silence.  This was the hardest thing she had ever done.  She glared at the ring.  It glimmered back mockingly. 

‘Yes?’ he asked. 

‘It’s…’ she began.  Was it her imagination or had it regained some of its luster?

‘Was it…’ she tried again.  Yes.  The storm had somehow polished it.

She looked into Inglor’s eyes and threw herself into the abyss.

‘I was speaking to some people in Tirion and I know it sounds silly but they thought it might be a betrothal ring.’

He regarded her with the familiar expression of befuddled kindness.  It rent her heart.

‘That is…I know it’s ridiculous…but I was wondering…is it?’

His expression barely changed. 

A physical wrench twisted within Haleth’s chest as her brittle heart shattered.  She looked away and withdrew her hands, face aflame with shame and embarrassment.

‘Well, of course it isn’t. Silly of me, really. Sorry.  It must have been the storm and thinking we were going to die and…sorry.’ 

A strong, gentle hand cupped her chin and pulled her around to face him.

‘Do you believe I would have interfered in your fate for any other reason?’ he asked, bowing his head until their foreheads rested together.  ‘What else could it possibly be?’

‘Well, I don’t know! It could have been anything!’ Haleth cried, drawing away from him.  

Inglor grinned, nonplussed by the explosion of temper.

‘It has always been the custom among the Eldar…’ he began.

‘I am NOT one of the Eldar!’ she shouted.  ‘At least I wasn’t…I’m still not.  I never will be, even if I do survive until the end of Arda. We have…my people had their own customs.  And don’t you dare ask me what they were!’ she shouted for his face had taken on the expression of mild interest that heralded a scholarly discussion. Haleth was in no mood to change the subject.  In fact, she could not begin to label her emotional state. 

‘You…you…you arrogant, leaf-eared Firstborn,’ she spluttered.  ‘Do you know what you’ve done?  Do you have any idea how long I’ve loved you?  Do you have any clue?  I knew it was hopeless.  I knew it from the start and I told myself don’t fall in love with him but, like a complete fool, I did anyways.  I’ve loved you for years and I hid it because you would never love me except as a friend or a temporary companion.  I was resigned to unrequited love.  I was quite prepared to say good-bye to you on the shores of Mithlond and I would have if you hadn’t thrown me into the ship.  I was going to let you go without ever telling you how I felt and somehow…somehow I’m in the Blessed Realm where I shouldn’t be.  You know I was here before, don’t you?’  He nodded.  She sailed on before he could speak. ‘You know what happened the last time I was here. Why did you bring me here?’

Inglor, in his usual unperturbed manner, tried to answer but Haleth barreled onwards, scarcely pausing for breath.

‘I was ready to die when I was brought before the Valar.  You know that, don’t you?  My family is dead.  My country is obliterated.  I’ve outlived everything and everyone I ever loved – until you came along – and just when I was about to give back my life I learned that you had chosen differently for me and I didn’t know why and…and…and…’ She threw her hands in the air, unable to express herself.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she wailed.

‘I thought you knew,’ he said, shrugging helplessly.  He looked close to laughter.

‘How could I possibly know?  And how did you know that I would say yes?  In fact, you didn’t explain, but I accepted betrothal when I accepted the ring, didn’t I?

‘Haleth, I thought you understood its significance.’  There was something in the way he said it, some tiny air of smug certitude that set Haleth’s temper aflame.

‘How did you know I’d accept?’ she snapped.

His face suddenly fell, all trace of merriment vanished.  He dropped to his knees on the bottom of the ship, seeming to age before her eyes.

‘If you do not wish it…if commitment to another binds you… I will not hold you to the promise,’ he said.

‘Who else would I be committed to?’ she asked in total bewilderment. 

‘Please forgive me, Haleth, but I must ask.  I do not know the ways of the Secondborn, but for the Firstborn the marriage bond is sealed when a couple joins together in physical union.  The bond remains, even if one of the partners dies. I cannot marry you if you are already wed.’

‘Inglor, it is different for the Secondborn.  If one spouse dies, it is expected the remaining partner will remarry!’

‘Were you ever married?’ he asked.

‘By the customs of my people?  No.  By the customs of yours?’ She paused. A horrible doubt gnawed at the pit of her stomach.  ‘I don’t know. My memory…I don’t know.’

He sat back, worry knotting his brow.  ‘Perhaps,’ he eventually said.  ‘If the man was mortal he would have passed from the Circles of the World long ago.’

‘Inglor, no,’ the words nearly killed her.  Her entire body was trembling. ’I will not have you do something so against your people’s custom.’ 

Strong arms wrapped around her, drew her against a firm body.  Inglor rocked her and stroked her hair.  Haleth leaned against him and shook all the more.

He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest.  She pulled away, shocked.  

‘We are quite the pair, are we not?’ he asked, ‘Both of us risking everything for the other only to realize their sacrifice is either unneeded or unwanted.’

‘I never said…’ she began.

‘It is quite plain that you do not want to be in the Blessed Realm.  Your deeds since you arrived here trumpet it.

‘Hush,’ he added, placing his fingers against her lips when she made to protest again. 

She grasped his hand and pulled it away from her mouth. 

‘I take it the Valar were not pleased with you for brining me here?’ she asked, ashamed to have not asked earlier.

‘The Valar, my family, my people, I daresay most of Valinor,’ he said. She was shocked; not because of the admission but because of his attitude. He sounded smug.  Then his face fell.  ‘You,’ he added wistfully.

‘Do you not love me, Haleth?’  His voice was barely a whisper.  ‘I thought you did.  You told me you did, but that may have been the effects of the poison.  If you do not, I have done you a grave harm that cannot be undone and I must ask your…’

‘Inglor, shut up,’ she said, breathlessly.

‘I cannot,’ he said, shaking his head.  Beads of water flew from his rain darkened hair.  ‘I must beg your…’

Whatever he meant to say next was silenced as Haleth reached out, grasped his shirt and pulled him to her.  Their lips met with firm decisiveness. 

Haleth could not remember kissing anyone before and she briefly wondered if she was managing the technique properly.  Inglor certainly did not seem to mind her lack of experience.  It crossed her mind that she had no clue about his past experiences and quickly decided it did not matter.  In fact, nothing outside of this longed-for embrace was of any importance at all.  The recent disagreement, their reason for being there, it all faded from thought, driven away by sweetness of his lips against hers. 

She shivered and groaned with longing, her lips parting for the sound to escape. Her free arm snaked around his shoulder and her hand ran in slow circles down his back.  She would have gladly remained there, wrapped in Inglor’s arms, until the end of time.

‘Inglor,’ she breathed as he nibbled on her ear and kissed the side of her neck. She fondled the tip of his ear.  His arms tightened around her convulsively.

‘Inglor,’ she whispered.  She squirmed against him, attempting to loosen his grip, but he seemed oblivious to her distress.

‘Inglor!  I can’t breathe!’ she gasped.

He loosened his grip so abruptly that she would have fallen to the bottom of the boat if he had not been steadying her.

‘Haleth! Look!  There is someone on the island!’ he cried, pointing towards the beach.

Face blazing, Haleth wheeled around, certain she would be greeted by a dozen, staring elves. 

The clouds were beginning to thin.  She peered in the indicated direction but saw little more than a huddle of rocks on the flat, sand beach.

‘Inglor, I don’t see anyone,’ she said tartly, thoroughly annoyed that the moment had been ruined. 

‘There!’ he insisted, pointing at the heap of rubble.  ‘There are three of them.  They appear to be sleeping.’

‘Couldn’t they sleep for a little while longer?’ she said petulantly.

‘Haleth, is this not whom we came to discover?’ Inglor asked, regarding her with disappointment. 

‘Inglor!’ she shouted, frightening a flock of seabirds that had sheltered in the cove.  They rose into the air in a noisy crowd.

‘Oh, fine.  Where are they?  I still can’t see them properly,’ she said without the slightest hint of grace.

‘There,’ he said, pointing to the pile of rocks.

Haleth leaned as far over the side of the ship as she could without falling into the water.  There were three heaps of rubble on the beach.  If she squinted and twisted her head to the side she could almost convince herself they were bodies instead of rocks. 

‘Many dared the passage west during the Ban,’ she said as she sat back. ‘These people could be any of them.’

‘I doubt many of them were women with blonde hair,’ said Inglor.

‘You think that’s Idril? Are you sure?’ asked Haleth, leaning over the side of the ship once more. 

‘I do not know for I have never met her, but it seems likely.  She is lying next to a mortal man.’

‘How do you know he is mortal?’ asked Haleth.  ‘Can you see his ears?’

‘No.  But I can see his beard,’ Inglor assured her.

‘Círdan has a beard,’ Haleth reminded him.

‘And his grey hair.’

‘Círdan’s hair could be described as grey,’ Haleth pointed out.

‘His skin is marked with the weariness of mortals,’ said Inglor.

Haleth thought of the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and pulled a sour face.

‘That does seem to narrow down the possibilities,’ she admitted reluctantly.  ‘Who is the third person?’

‘Those who returned after the War of Wrath claimed that Voronwë had sailed with them,’ said Inglor distantly.

‘That must be them, then,’ said Haleth.  ‘How are we going to get them off the island?’

Inglor blinked like an owl at noon.  It was as close to an expression of surprise as he ever got.

‘Had you not considered this?’ he asked.

‘Somewhat,’ she said shortly.  ‘I suppose the easiest way would be to go ashore and get them.’  She pushed past Inglor, threw herself onto the rower’s’ seat and reached for the oars.

‘That would not be wise,’ said Inglor as he moved the oars out of her reach.  ‘The enchantment appears to still be in place.  If we land the boat and fall victim to the curse we could remain here until the end of world for it is unlikely that any sailor would come in search of us.  No one came in search of them.’  He nodded towards the sleepers huddled on the beach.

He took Haleth’s hands in his. 

‘As much as I would like to sleep with you, it would be preferable to be awake for at least part of the time,’ he said.

The heat of a rising blush burned Haleth’s face.  It was all she could do to not kiss him again.  It would be so easy to wrap her arms around him and draw him close. 

She shivered and forced herself to look away.  In the past she had often found Inglor’s presence a distraction.  Now she looked back on those times and knew she had been very clear headed.  With a single kiss he had completely destroyed her ability to concentrate.  Stray thoughts fluttered through her head.  None of them had any bearing on solving the current problem.  She scrubbed her face with her hands and attempted to gather her scattered ideas.

‘I could swim ashore alone and see if the enchantment is till in place,’ Inglor suggested.   

‘No,’ said Haleth slowly.  ‘What will happen if you fall asleep?  Which seems likely as they’d have awakened by now if the spell was broken.’

‘You could sail back to Tol Eressëa and return with a rescue party,’ said Inglor.  He paused to consider his own suggestion.  ‘In fact…’ he began.

‘No!’ said Haleth.  She had set this task for herself to prove there was something she could do better than the elves.  To go to them and beg for help would be admitting defeat. 

‘But Haleth,’ he began.

‘No, no, no! Just give me some time to think!’

He lapsed into helpful silence while Haleth tried to come up with a realistic plan of action.  The clouds broke apart to reveal a rain-washed and setting sun. 

Inglor rummaged through the remaining supplies while Haleth wracked her brains.

‘There is barely enough fresh water for the return journey,’ he said, sitting down across from her.

‘Is that for two of us or for five of us?’ Haleth asked, distracted.

‘Two of us,’ he replied. ‘I suggest we remain here for the night and set out for Tol Eressëa tomorrow morning.’

‘After I try one thing,’ said Haleth.

‘Haleth, this is not a matter for discussion.  The sea is unforgiving of folly.’

‘I know, Inglor.  I know,’ she said.  ‘I have sailed here before.’

‘We have come so far.  I will not gamble our lives now,’ he growled.

It was Haleth’s turn to blink at him in surprise.  He seemed to have grown taller and his eyes flashed with anger.

‘Be at peace, Inglor,’ she said soothingly.  ‘I simply want to test the strength of the enchantment.

‘Would it not be better to return to Tol Eressëa with this information?’ she asked.

‘It depends entirely on how you intend to determine this,’ he said suspiciously.

‘I don’t know yet,’ Haleth admitted.  ‘But it should not take very long and it can be done tomorrow morning before we set sail.’

He looked extremely unconvinced.

‘Please?’ she wheedled.

‘Very well,’ he said with obvious reluctance. 

‘Good.  Is there anything left to eat?’

‘Little enough,’ he said. ‘The sea has spoiled most of what is left.’

‘I suppose that means more fish,’ she sighed.

‘It would if the fishing poles had not been washed overboard.’ He handed her a piece of dried fruit. 

‘Is this all we have?’ she asked.

‘No, there is a little more but not much.  We shall have to be careful of it on our way back.’

They chewed in companionable silence.  Haleth’s mind ground in slow circles around the problem.  Part of her forlornly wished Inglor would sit next to her and put his arm around her.  Yet if he did that, any hope of her formulating any sort of plan to rescue the sleepers would be completely lost.

‘Is there any rope left aside from the rigging?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied.  ‘In that, at least, we were fortunate.’

‘Good,’ said Haleth distantly.

The wind was growing cooler as the sun set.  Haleth shivered when a gust blew over them.

‘I wonder if there are any dry clothes,’ she asked as she rooted through a chest that had been securely lashed to the ship.  The box contained several water logged sacks of way bread, a two water skins and little else.

‘I doubt it,’ said Inglor as he delved into another box. 

‘Oh,’ said Haleth.  Her clothing was still damp.  It promised to be a long, cold, wet night without hope of dry clothing or a fire.  She glared resentfully at the island.  Between the driftwood and the forest beyond the beach there was more than enough fuel nearby for a robust fire.   It was quite frustrating to sit in the ship so close to it without being able to use it.

Inglor threw the anchor over the side to keep the ship from drifting while they slept.

‘Come sit by me,’ he said when he had finished.

‘Why?’  The word escaped Haleth’s mouth before she could stop it.

‘Because your garments are wet and you will be chilled.  I will keep you warm.’

She sprang to his side and sat next to him.

‘You seem surprised,’ she said to his expression of mild astonishment.

‘I was expecting an argument,’ he said. 

‘But I am quite happy to not have one,’ he added when her brows lowered.

He positioned her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. 

Haleth laid her head against his shoulder and tried to make sense of the day’s events. 

She was asleep before she could untangle any of them.

The sun’s warmth brought Haleth back to consciousness. She was upright, leaning against something warm.

‘Good morning.’ Inglor said as he released her. The events of the previous day flooded back with returning awareness. 

‘Did I startle you?’ he asked, smiling.

‘A little,’ she admitted.  ‘I’m not used to awakening with anyone so close to me.’

‘Neither am I,’ he said lightly.  ‘But the experience is quite delightful.  In time we will doubtless grow accustomed to it.’

Haleth’s breath caught in her throat.  The world dissolved.  All of the self-pity, all of the homesickness faded to insignificance.  A silly, lop-sided grin spread across her face.

 ‘Have you thought of a plan to test the island’s enchantment?’ he asked.

The real world returned with a bump. ‘Yes,’ she said sourly. 

‘What is it?’ he asked when she was disinclined to give any further information.

‘I’ll tie a rope around myself and swim in to shore. If I fall asleep we’ll know the enchantment is still in place.’

Inglor studied her in silence for a long, drawn out moment. ‘That is your plan?’ he asked.

‘At the moment, yes,’ she replied.

‘Very well, but I believe I should be the one to test it.’

‘No,’ said Haleth adamantly. 

‘You can pull me back into the ship even if I fall asleep,’ she said before he could protest.  ‘I doubt I could lift you into the ship without help.’

His misgivings, though characteristically mild, were plain to see.

‘Unless you don’t mind being towed back to Tol Eressëa,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said.  ‘But I do not approve.’

‘You don’t need to approve. You just need to pull me back into the ship if I fall asleep.’

After a meager breakfast of salted, dried meat and a mouthful of water, Haleth began her preparations.  A short time later she was swimming towards the three inert forms that lay upon the beach.

The water was bracing.  She was wearing little more than her tunic and undergarments.  It was far from decent.  Before yesterday she would have been embarrassed to have Inglor see her this way.  Today she was writhing with shame.  She only hoped that her tunic would remain where it should and not ride up to her neck if she fell asleep and he had to haul her back to the ship.  The thick rope had been tied into a harness that ran beneath her arms, around her body and between her legs.  It was cumbersome and the rope grew heavy as it absorbed seawater. She was already tired by the time her feet touched the bottom of the cove. 

The sand bottom was smooth beneath her feet as she trudged towards the shore. It felt as though she had been walking for hours without progress. A voice rang faintly in her ears.  She ignored it.  She was too far away to hear and too exhausted to care.  If only she could reach the shore, she could rest. 

The white sands of the beach looked very inviting. It would make a beautiful soft bed where she could rest her weary head.  There was something she had meant to do, some errand she had meant to accomplish, but she was so tired that she could not recall what it was.  If only she could sleep for a little while, she was certain the memory would return. 

It seemed to take the better half of the day to reach the shore. Fighting off the urge to immediately lie down and sleep, she doggedly trudged up the beach.

There were three other people sleeping on the beach.  They certainly looked comfortable.  Her eyelids were so heavy.  Without another thought she lay down and stretched out, marveling at the sand which was softer than a feather bed.  The waves sang a lullabye as they washed upon the shore.  Sleep beckoned her to pleasant dreams.  Haleth closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the sun upon her face.  Peace washed over her.  It carried her to a blissful, beautiful place where the water was sweet and thirst never known.  Her only regret was that Inglor was not with her. 

The next thing she knew she was lying in the bottom of the ship, once again wet, cold and thirsty with Inglor standing over her, his features arranged in an expression of mild concern.

‘Why did you wake me?’  she grumbled. She was strongly tempted to roll over and fall back to sleep.

‘Because I have no wish to be married to a sleeping bride,’ he replied.

That wakened Haleth completely.  She pushed herself upright and shook her head.

‘I imagine it would make things somewhat awkward,’ she mumbled.

‘Yes,’ he agreed amiably as he hoisted the anchor into the ship.

She watched him in a daze as he took the oars and began to row.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked stupidly.

‘To Tol Eressëa,’ he said.  ‘The enchantment is still in place.  Now that we know we can bring aid to rescue the sleepers.’

‘Wait, Inglor, wait,’ she said, grasping his hands to stop him.

‘Haleth, be reasonable.  You said you wanted to test if the enchantment was still upon the island.  You have shown that it is.’

‘But I have an idea,’ she said.  ‘How much better would it be if we arrived at Tol Eressëa with three of the people from legend?’

‘Your legend is my history and I will have neither interfere with our future.’

‘So you would just leave them, then? Just like everyone else has left them for the past three thousand years?’ she demanded.

‘No.  I would return with a larger, better equipped ship and crew to rescue them.’

Haleth gazed longingly at the three figures on the beach. 

‘Inglor, I have one more idea I would like to try,’ she said.

‘Can you not try it later from a larger ship?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it,’ she said.

Inglor began to row.  ‘If you have doubts it is because it is too dangerous,’ he said.

‘No.  Inglor.  It is because I’m mort…It’s because I was born mortal.  I’m slower, weaker and less agile than any of the Elves.’

‘All the more reason for us to return to Tol Eressëa for help,’ he said reasonably.

‘Inglor, please.  They’re my family.  I’d like to try.  You can always pull me back if I fail’ she pleaded.

‘You mean you are too proud to be bested by another,’ he countered.

‘Well…yes, but I’d still like to try,’ she said.

‘What if the effect grows stronger each time you set foot on the island?  What if you will not awaken the next time?’ he asked softly. 

She stared at him in dismay.  In the past she would have simply shrugged off his objections and gone her own way.  But things had changed; she owed him more than a toss of her head and a disdainful eye roll.

‘I cannot guarantee that it would not happen, but I must try. Everyone is better than me at everything. Please, Inglor. This is the one thing I can do that no one else has done before. I ask you to find it in your heart to allow me this challenge.’

Inglor gazed at her intently.  ‘Is that why you were so angry when I found the Ringbearer’s button?’

‘Yes,’ Haleth said, the heat of a blush rising at the memory. ‘Finding things is the only useful skill I possess, but you’re better at it than me.’ 

‘Haleth, you have already found Idril, Tuor and Voronwe.’

‘No, Inglor.  You found them.  You saw them first,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘But I would not thought to come here without you,’ he insisted. 

‘Do you think anyone will care? People will say it was you.  Everyone remembers you.’

Inglor rubbed his forehead and muttered under his breath.

‘Please, Inglor I would be most unhappy if I was not allowed to test myself,’ she said.

‘Yes, I know better than most,’ he said.  ‘And perhaps my test is to watch you put yourself in danger.’ 

‘You can always pull me back to the ship,’ she said.

‘What is this plan?’ he asked reluctantly. 

‘It all depends on my grappling hook still being onboard,’ she said. 

A short time later Haleth was inching her along a rope that was suspended over the water.  One end was firmly anchored in the ship.  The other was attached to her grappling hook which was embedded in a tree.  It had taken Inglor several attempts to get the rope attached at the proper height above the ground. 

He remained in the ship, occasionally pulling on the oars to insure the rope stayed taut enough to keep Haleth from sinking onto the sand. 

The rope was smooth beneath her bare feet and she found herself wishing for the rough, thick rope made by mortal hands rather than the thin, delicate stuff fashioned by the elves.  It was difficult to balance, especially with the makeshift harness fastened around her and the second harness and rope attached to her waist. 

The rope began to sink.  She waved, shouting her distress to Inglor. 

The rope tightened and rose as he repositioned the ship.  A flock of gulls had been attracted by the action and noise.  They wheeled overhead, scolding each other. 

Haleth ignored them and continued making her slow way towards the shore, all of her concentration on sliding along the rope while keeping her balance.

At last she reached land and paused to take in the situation. The rope passed very close to a blonde woman and a tall, strong man who were lying together.  These must be Idril and Tuor.  Voronwë lay only a short distance away, but he was completely out of reach. 

The rope sank again.  Haleth risked a quick glance over her shoulder.  Half of the flock of gulls appeared to have perched on the rope.  Their combined weight was dragging the rope downwards.  She gritted her teeth in frustration.  There was little she could do.  She had nothing to throw at them and yelling was no use; they were already making far more noise than she could ever hope to make.

There came a great row of angry squawks and a flurry of wings as the flock rose into the air as one, scolding and shrieking the entire time. 

She had a brief vision of herself sailing into the air as the weight was removed from the rope, but it only rose a little and she was able to retain her balance.

Inglor waved from the ship.  She may not have any ammunition to disperse the quarrelsome gulls but he was at no such disadvantage.  She vaguely wondered what he had thrown at them.  ‘It had better not have been my boots,’ she thought darkly.

She was very close to her goal.  Now she could see Tuor’s grizzled beard and grey hair.  A small, vain part of her was pleased that she would not longer appear to be the eldest in a society of the perpetually young. 

He and Idril were lying beside each other, her head resting on his shoulder.  Haleth wondered why they had landed on this small island.  Perhaps they had been searching for shelter in a storm and had been taken unaware.

Haleth reached the spot just above the sleeping couple, halted and slowly lowered herself so that she squatted on the rope. 

The plan sounded quite simple.  Attach a rope to one of the trees, walk across, lift the sleepers, secure them in the harness, walk back to the ship and help Inglor to pull them to safety. 

As with many of her plans, Haleth was discovering that she had disregarded several factors when she had made her calculations.

It was far more difficult to maintain her balance than she had thought it would be.  Voronwë was too far away for her to reach without stepping off the rope. Looking at Tuor’s size, Haleth knew there was no possible way she could hope to shift him even if she had both feet firmly planted on the ground.  She reluctantly admitted she would have to content herself with rescuing Idril.

Haleth was far from certain she could move her, either but there was no way she would admit defeat without at least making an attempt.  If Inglor had to pull her back to the ship, she could at least pretend to be sleeping to avoid his ‘I told you so,’ expression.

Taking a deep breath, Haleth steadied herself before reaching for Idril’s hand. 

She slowly pulled Idril upright, marvelling at how heavy such a slender creature could be.  It took a ridiculous amount of time, but Haleth eventually succeeded in getting the rope securely looped beneath her arms.  She waved to Inglor to indicate he should begin to pull the rope attached to Idril. 

Unfortunately there was some confusion, some twisting of the ropes and it was Haleth who was drawn forward.  Shrieking in dismay, she lost her balance. Fortunately she succeeded in catching the rope with both hands. 

Unfortunately her foot slid off the rope and struck the sand.  Pins and needles shot up her leg.  Clinging to the rope and cursing under her breath, Haleth was forced to a painstaking crawl along the rope.  

As soon as she was able she slid into the water and swam towards the ship.

‘What are you waiting for?’ she shouted to Inglor.  ‘Pull the other rope!’

Soon Idril was floating in the calm, azure waters of the cove.  Haleth wrapped her arm beneath the sleeping woman’s shoulder to keep her head above the water and towed her back to the boat. 

Inglor pulled Idril into the ship, leaving Haleth hanging on to the gunwale.

‘Can you not manage on your own?’ he asked.

‘My leg is asleep,’ she had snapped. 

They arranged Idril in the bottom of the bow of the boat, making her as comfortable as they could.  Then Inglor raised the anchor, replaced the mast and the sail while Haleth made helpful suggestions and pounded on her sleeping leg.

By afternoon they were sailing south, their forward progress being much less than the actual distance traveled as the wind blew out of the west which forced them to tack. 

Haleth, whose duty it was to adjust the sail, chewed on her lip and considered their situation.  The food supplies were low as most of the food had either been washed overboard in the storm or spoiled by sea water.  Fish were thick in these waters. They should be able to fashion some type of hook and use the spoiled supplies as bait.  Anything they caught would have to be eaten raw as there was no way to light a cooking fire.  It would be disagreeable but they would survive. 

Lack of fresh water was a bigger worry.  There was barely enough water for one person to survive the journey back to Tol Eressëa, but there were two people onboard, three, if Idril awakened before they reached their destination.

‘Inglor,’ she said.  ‘There is a problem.’

‘Yes,’ he said calmly.  ‘We are drifting too far east.’

‘Besides that,’ said Haleth as she stifled a groan, dragged herself upright and hopped towards the rigging. ‘There is not enough fresh water.’

‘I know. I told you as much,’ said Inglor calmly.

She grunted as she untied the halyards and rearranged the sail to bring the ship back towards the west.

‘It’s too bad we bailed all of the rain water out,’ she observed.

‘It was fouled with the water from the waves,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know,’ Haleth snapped.  She climbed to her feet, forgetting her sleeping leg, and almost lost her balance.

‘Be careful.  You came near to falling upon Idril,’ Inglor admonished her.

‘I KNOW,’ she shouted. 

Several gulls that were following the boat in hopes of an easy meal veered away.

‘Now you are frightening the birds,’ said Inglor unnecessarily.

‘So I am,’ she replied tartly, taking hold of the mast for balance. 

‘And you may awaken Idril, in which case there would be three of us trying to survive on water enough for one,’ he added.

Haleth fell into brooding silence.  The adjustments to the sail completed, she sat down heavily and stared across the ocean.

‘Would it help if we rowed?’ she asked. 

‘For now the wind is strong enough that we are better traveling under the sail,’ he said.  ‘If the wind dies, I shall row.’

‘We’ll take turns,’ she said.

‘Haleth, if you row you will become thirsty.’

Her throat closed.  She was already thirsty. 

It promised to be a very long voyage.

The journey seemed ridiculously long; far more than it had a right to be.  Haleth was certain the outbound trip had not taken as long. 

It was not only the distance that conspired against them; the wind had died.  Inglor now rowed, his back bent almost to his knees.  But in spite of his heroic effort, they barely seemed to move at all, or at least that is what Haleth believed as she stared over the unchanging breadth of water.

Idril slept on, oblivious to discomfort.  Haleth envied her.

Haleth was certain they had drifted too far to the east.  This should have excited her as it meant she was closer to home, but now it only meant it would be that much longer before she could slake her thirst.  She had mentioned as much to Inglor, who had insisted in a polite but adamant way that she was not in the condition to form a valid judgement.

She reluctantly had to agree with him, at least about her physical condition.   Burning thirst consumed her waking hours while her dreams were filled with the sound and smell of sweet water held just out of her reach.  On more than one occasion she had awakened to discover Inglor pulling her hand away from her mouth, forcing her to drop the salt water she had scooped from the sea. 

He must be every bit as thirsty, but Inglor never complained.  If anything Haleth’s growing discomfort had spurred him to great acts of endurance; he had been rowing since before the dawn and now that the sun neared its zenith, he showed no signs of slowing.

Haleth attempted to speak only to discover her lips firmly sealed and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.  With an effort she forced her mouth to work properly.

‘You should rest,’ she croaked.

‘Not yet,’ he replied, shaking his head.

‘Inglor, if you drive yourself too hard we will never see Tol Eressëa,’ she said.

He stopped rowing and examined her closely.

‘We must reach Tol Eressëa soon,’ he said. 

‘Yes, about that.  I’ve been giving the matter some thought,’ said Haleth who had been thinking of little else.  ‘If we find an island with a stream we should try to sail upstream as far as we can and try to collect some fresh water.’

‘I do not believe that would be wise,’ Inglor interrupted.  ‘The water, like the land, could also be enchanted.’

‘Failing that,’ said Haleth, continuing on as though he had not spoken.  ‘You could leave me asleep on an island and return with help.’

Inglor stared at her as though she had grown a second head.

‘It would be for the best,’ she rasped.  ‘I cannot last much longer without water.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘No I can’t last much longer?  Look at me, Inglor.  Look at this.’  She pinched the skin on the back of her hand.  It remained in a lose fold.

‘No I will not abandon you on an unmarked and unknown island,’ he said.

‘Inglor, what do you believe might happen?’ she asked.  ‘Idril, Tuor and Voronwë were undisturbed for over three thousand years.  What makes you think I’d be accosted if you left me for a few weeks?’

‘I will not abandon you,’ he insisted.

‘But Inglor,’ she began.

‘I might be tempted to believe you are too frightened to marry me,’ he said.

Haleth regarded him in open-mouthed outrage.

‘Too frightened?’ she protested.

She struggled to her feet but was quickly overcome by a wave of weakness that forced her to think better of it. She slumped onto a wooden chest, her head bowed down to her knees, temper forgotten.

Gentle fingers caressed her back in a vain attempt to reassure her.  With a supreme effort she propped her head up with her hands and regarded Inglor with her sunken eyes.

‘Inglor, if we do not find fresh water soon there will be no wedding,’ she said calmly.

‘We will find it somewhere,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. ‘Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.’

The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue but Haleth did not have the energy to point out the obvious.

‘Perhaps,’ she agreed weakly.

He released her, moved back to the rower’s bench, bent over the oars and rowed with renewed urgency.

The sight of Inglor physically working normally riveted Haleth’s attention but this time she watched him and silently begged Manwë, Ulmo, or any of the Valar who might harken to her pleas for rain.  She envied Idril, who still slept and was insensible to their predicament.  It was quite ironic that Idril should be rescued from an enchanted island only to be lost at sea. 

The stars were burning brightly overhead when she finally fell asleep, curled into a ball on the bottom of the boat, wedged between the chest and the stern of the ship while listening to the rhythmic strokes of the oars in the boundless sea. She dreamt of a land with clear flowing streams, deep, cold lakes and springs of sweet water where she could drink her fill and never be thirsty again.

Haleth slowly drifted back to awareness and the burning, insistent thirst.  Years of homeless wandering had inured her to most physical discomfort, but she could not ignore this. It was difficult for her to notice or think of anything other than her swollen tongue and cracked lips. 

In spite of the overwhelming urgency of the thirst, there was something more her beleaguered body was trying to communicate.  With an effort Haleth concentrated on something other than her dry mouth and throat. 

There was a cold, dampness on her face.  She licked her lips and discovered they were unexpectedly wet.  Opening her eyes she discovered a world of grey, wispy tendrils.  Inglor sat slumped at the oars, defeated by thirst and exhaustion. 

The fog which enveloped the boat had condensed upon everything in sight.  Moisture glistened upon the wood of the ship.  Dewdrops quivered on the chest and oars.  The sail was wet with them.  Without stopping to think Haleth licked up the dew with her parched tongue.  It was sweeter than honey. 

She was lapping at one of the oars when the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.  She glanced to the stern of the ship, expecting to find Inglor awake and ready to scold her for being selfish with the precious water, but he was still fast asleep. 

Haleth turned her gaze to the ship’s bow. 

There, standing like an apparition in the murk, stood Idril, watching her with a calm, appraising manner. 

‘Oh.  Hello,’ said Haleth, reluctantly lowering the oar. 

Idril continued to watch her with the same quiet scrutiny and Haleth realized she had been speaking in Westron.

‘Greetings,’ Haleth said, switching to Sindarin.  She hoped Idril could understand her.  It would be nearly impossible for her to be coherent in Quenya.

‘Where are we?’ said Idril.

‘On a guess I’d have to say lost,’ answered Haleth. 

Idril seemed less than pleased with the answer but she remained calm and polite.

‘Where is Tuor, my husband?’ she asked.  ‘And our loyal friend Voronwë?’

‘They are still as….’

‘My Lady Idril.’ Inglor had awakened at the sound of their voices. ‘I am Inglor of the House of Arafinwë.  My companion and I were able to rescue you from a sleep-enchanted island but, alas, were unable to also rescue your husband and friend.  When the fog lifts we shall bring you to Tol Eressëa.’

‘Tol Eressëa?’ snorted Idril.  ‘There is no aid to be had upon Tol Eressëa.  We must hence to Valinor with all possible haste.  The forces of Morgoth grow strong in the north and with no succor from the Blessed Realm, all of Middle-earth will be lost.’

Haleth looked from Idril to Inglor in confusion, too parched to understand.  They seemed to have forgotten about her so she brought the oar to her lips and greedily licked the droplets from it.

The movement caught Idril’s attention.  She examined Haleth curiously.

‘You are Secondborn,’ she exclaimed. 

Embarrassed to have been noticed, Haleth lowered the oar.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I know you not from the Havens,’ said Idril, examining her narrowly.  ‘From whence came you?’

‘Most recently, from Tol Eressëa,’ Haleth replied.

Idril frowned, whether in confusion or disbelief Haleth could not judge. 

‘The world is much changed since you sailed from the Havens of the Sirion,’ said Inglor gently. 

‘So it seems,’ said Idril slowly.  She shook herself.

‘Lord Inglor, well met.  Unless I much miss my guess, there is some kinship between us,’ said Idril.

‘Indeed. And whether to Tol Eressëa or to Valinor itself we cannot go until Anor burns away the mist,’ said Inglor in his perfectly reasonable, maddeningly calm manner.

His gaze fell upon Haleth who was alternately running her fingertips over the ship and sucking the moisture from her hands.  He shook his head, using one oar, turned the boat.

‘Where are you taking us?’ Idril demanded.

‘Araman,’ he replied.  ‘We must be careful to stay on course to reach Tol Eressëa.  If we sail west we are bound to reach the mainland.’

‘We will be sailing further from help,’ said Idril pointedly.

‘We will never survive to summon help without fresh water,’ said Inglor. There will be fresh water in Araman.’

‘West it is,’ croaked Haleth.

‘As we are sailing perhaps you could tell me of the events of the wider world,’ said Idril.

‘Nothing should please me better,’ said Inglor.  ‘Many years have passed since you set sail from the Havens at the mouth of the Sirion and much has happened in that time.  Eärendil sailed into the uttermost West.’

‘My son!’ Idril exclaimed.  ‘My son survives?’

‘He does and he is accounted among the great by Elves and Men,’ said Inglor. ‘For it was by his voyage and his pleadings that the Valar were moved to send their Host to Middle-earth and end the reign of the Great Enemy.’

Haleth watched Idril’s face as Inglor told the old story.  For an elf, Idril had an incredibly expressive face and Haleth wondered why this should be.  Perhaps it was her comparative youth; Idril had only lived five centuries before she set foot upon the island and fell into her enchanted sleep. 

Whatever the reason, it was enlightening to watch her reactions to hearing for the first time what was, to Haleth, a very old story and one to which she had always known the ending.  For Idril, these events were new and held a personal immediacy that Haleth, born over three thousand years later, could never appreciate.

‘My son is a star?’ Idril asked softly.

‘The Silmaril shines upon his brow when he sails the heavens,’ said Inglor.

‘He is a sign of hope for those who must remain in Middle-earth,’ Haleth added.

Idril looked at her sharply.  Ashamed, like a child who had spoken out of turn, Haleth fell silent and looked at her hands.  The skin was loose, as though it had grown several sizes while the rest of her had shrunk.  She shuddered and looked into the mists instead.

‘You must drink.’  Inglor opened a chest, took out one of the remaining water skins and handed it to Haleth.

It was depressingly light. Haleth wanted to drain the entire thing.  It took a supreme act of will to hand it back to Inglor.

‘You should drink.  You need to row,’ she said. 

‘I can last the longer without water,’ Inglor reminded her as he refused the skin.

‘As can I,’ said Idril as Haleth silently offered it to her.

‘Perhaps,’ said Haleth, whose pride had been wounded at the intimation, no matter how carefully worded, that she was weaker than the others.  The fact that it was true did nothing to help her mood.  ‘Perhaps not.’

Inglor and Idril exchanged glances; Inglor’s was irritated, Idril’s surprised.

‘Haleth,’ he began sternly.

‘We shall all share the water?’ Idril interjected.

‘Of course we shall,’ Haleth beamed in spite of the ridiculousness of the situation; three people sharing a bit of water that was not enough for one.

‘You may begin,’ said Inglor. 

‘I insist,’ he added to Haleth’s mutinous expression.

Haleth glanced at Idril and saw no help there. 

Stifling a sigh, she took two quick sips, barely wetting her mouth before passing the skin to Idril.

Haleth peered into the misty gloom to avoid staring like a dog begging for food.  Breathing the moist air in itself was a relief.  If she kept telling herself that, she might believe it.

‘Here.  Drink.’  Inglor handed the skin back to her.

Judging by its weight, there seemed just as much water now as their had been when she had passed it alongl.

‘It would be preferable if the two of you deigned to drink this time,’ she said, taking a quick sip. 

‘As it would be for you to do the same,’ said Inglor.

Haleth opened her mouth to protest when Idril interrupted.

‘For pity’s sake just drink the stuff.  We shall never be free of this place otherwise and I should dearly like to rescue my husband and friend.’

‘How will we even know in which direction to sail?’ Haleth demanded.

‘We are north of Tol Eressëa.  For now we will keep the sun to our left.  I shall better be able to judge our position this evening if the sky is clear,’ said Inglor.

Haleth glanced about.  Anor was a watery circle within the curtains of silver mist.

‘And if the sky is not clear?’ asked Haleth, determinedly ignoring the sun.

‘Then we shall prepare to catch what rain as we can,’ said Inglor serenely.

‘Now drink,’ Idril insisted.

For Haleth, the days passed in much the same haze as they had before Idril had awakened.  The only change was that Idril replaced her in helping to sail the ship while Haleth languished for want of water.  Inglor had help rowing the boat whenever the wind died away.

The dawns continued to bring a thick blanket of fog and while it was never enough to truly alleviate Haleth’s thirst, at least it was sufficient to keep her from dying.  She spent most of her days propped up against the side of the boat, listlessly watching the others and eavesdropping on their conversation.  At least she assumed it was eavesdropping.  At first they had made the attempt to include her in their discussions but Haleth found it almost impossible to make any meaningful contribution. 

Inglor set up a small, tent-like contraption with a cloak and an unused oar as protection from the afternoon sun.  It was under this that Haleth spent most of her days. 

It was a hot afternoon.  The wind had died and Inglor was rowing the boat when Idril began a discussion with him.

‘From whence does Haleth come?’ she asked.  “She is not from the Havens unless she arrived as a refugee some time after we sailed for I know her not.  Nor do I know from which of the Houses of Men she has sprung.’

‘Haleth is from a place that no longer exists,’ said Inglor.

‘What place is that?’ asked Idril after a time spent pondering this revelation.  Even in her weakened state Haleth could appreciate the confusion Inglor had just caused. 

‘It would probably be best if you waited until Haleth is again capable of answering those questions herself,’ said Inglor. 

‘How did you happen upon her?’ asked Idril after a long lull in the conversation.

‘She was drowning in a lake.  I rescued her,’ said Inglor.

‘That would seem rather clumsy even for one of the Secondborn,’ said Idril.  ‘Did she meet some mischief that sent her tumbling into the water?’

‘No,’ said Inglor.  ‘She was searching for something.’

‘Does she often search for things underwater?’ asked Idril lightly.

‘She searches wherever she thinks she might find a thing of interest,’ Inglor replied.

‘I have been wondering, Inglor of the House of Arafinwë.  If so many years have passed since Tuor and I sailed to beg the aid of the Valar against the might of the Enemy, how is it that no one has searched for us until now?  Did no one know of the tale of Idril and Tuor and how they had sailed into the West to seek aid?

Haleth held her breath and waited for Inglor’s reply, wishing that she could see his face.  She had wondered about this but had never dared to ask.  Haleth had the impression there was very little Idril would not dare.

‘Pardon me, my lady but it was widely known you had sailed.  It was also widely known that you never reached your intended destination.  The assumption was that you – you and your lord husband and Voronwë – had all perished at sea in ages past.’

There was another very long pause in the conversation while Haleth resolutely resisted the temptation to crawl from beneath the tent to look upon Idril’s face.  If they were aware that she was awake, Haleth was quite certain the topic of conversation would immediately change.

‘Tell me, Inglor of the House of Arafinwë, if this was the case it seems as though your companion and you discovered us only by a happy accident while you were searching for another thing,’ said Idril stiffly.

‘No.’ The answer came quickly and with Inglor’s quiet vehemence.  ‘We came in search of you.’

‘And why would a son of the House of Arafinwë, after seven thousand years had passed, suddenly decide to search for his supposedly dead relatives?’

‘Did she say seven thousand?’ Haleth thought.  ‘No.  It must have been several thousand.’

There was another long pause in the conversation.  Haleth, through long familiarity with Inglor’s habits, was not surprised.  He had ignored many of her questions as well.  Still, she had the impression it would be far more difficult to put off the formidable Idril. As an immortal Firstborn, Idril’s attention span was much longer. It occurred to Haleth that she was now immortal herself; she could afford to patiently wait for the end of Inglor’s long silences.  Their conversations would be different from this time forth – assuming she survived this adventure.   

The day grew warm and still Inglor gave no answer.  Haleth struggled against the sleepiness that always claimed her in the afternoon, determined to remain awake in case Idril pressed Inglor for an answer.

‘I must confess it was neither me nor any of the Firstborn who thought to seek for you.  It was Haleth.’

Haleth held her breath, anticipating some indication of disbelief from Idril. She was rather surprised when none came.  Instead Idril asked, ‘What matter of woman seeks for people who were supposedly drowned?’

‘One who excels at finding whatever she sets out in search of,’ Inglor replied lightly.

‘It may rain later this day,’ said Inglor.

‘It may,’ Idril agreed.  ‘We shall have to contrive a way to catch the sweet water.’

‘I believe I would enjoy a respite,’ he said.

‘I shall take up the oars,’ said Idril.

Several minutes later, Inglor crawled beneath the makeshift canopy and lay down beside Haleth.  She rolled over so that her head rested upon his shoulder before surrendering to slumber.

The white, jagged teeth of the Pelori loomed before them.  Haleth sat listlessly in the bow and watched the mountains grow larger as Inglor and Idril discussed where to land. 

Their first concern was to secure fresh water.  The mountains were adorned with many high cascades, the water melting from the ever-lasting snows on the high peaks.  Streams poured across the narrow strip of land Araman to flow into the sea. 

‘When last I was here this land was empty,’ said Idril, gazing at the verdant foothills.

‘Much has changed in the ages since the death of the Trees,’ said Inglor.  ‘The light of Anor touches both sides of the Pelori.’

‘Yet the light is not the same,’ said Idril.

‘No, it is not,’ Inglor agreed. 

‘What of Tirion?  How has it faired in this Age of the Sun?’ asked Idril.

‘Tirion fairs as it always has, although many of the houses remain empty.’

‘Have so few returned to Valinor?’ asked Idril. 

‘Many of our people who returned from Middle-earth now reside on Tol Eressëa,’ said Inglor. 

‘They have not returned to Tirion?’ asked Idril.

‘Not all of them, no,’ said Inglor, shifting uncomfortably.

‘The pardon of the Valar is difficult to earn,’ said Idril.  She sounded vexed. ‘And what of those who fell defending Middle-earth from the Enemy.  How many of them have returned from Mandos’ Halls?’ 

Inglor did not reply for a long time.  Haleth amused herself by watching the gulls swoop and dive over the water.

‘Some have,’ he eventually said.  ‘But very few: Findaranto, Glorfindel and Ecthelion are among them.’

‘Your esteemed father, Lord Turukano is not,’ said Haleth, turning around to join the conversation.  The elves were examining her with blank expressions, seemingly astonished at her bluntness.   Their attitude annoyed her.  She was sick to death of their circumspect conversations.  They were in dire need of a lesson in straight-forwardness.

‘Your father, uncles and grandfather are, to my knowledge, still in Mandos.  Your grandmother on your father’s side is not and she misses you very, very much and longs to see you again, though I dare say she was not be expecting you to be here or she would have searched for you herself.  As you know your son is a star.  His son dwells on Tol Eressëa. Your descendants walk in Middle-earth and have done many deeds, both grievous and wonderful…’

‘Haleth is numbered among them,’ Inglor interrupted.  It brought Haleth up short.  She glared at him in silent accusation.

Idril, already overwhelmed by the tide of information, stared at Haleth in shock.

‘You are my descendant?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ said Haleth, shifting uncomfortably and silently cursing Inglor for making the revelation. Idril was obviously scandalized to discover her blood flowed in such a scruffy individual. ‘But there are many, many generations…’

‘Good,’ said Idril.

‘I—beg your pardon?’ asked Haleth who had been expecting a polite, subdued expression of profound disappointment.

‘I said good,’ Idril repeated, eyes flashing.  ‘You are willing to act instead of endlessly speaking while accomplishing nothing at all.’

Haleth looked from Idril to Inglor in confusion.  He refused to make eye contact, but she guessed by the way he enthusiastically worked the oars that he was quite amused by the entire exchange.  If it had not been so much work to move, she would have clambered over Idril and swatted him.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked in a very transparent attempt to change the subject.

‘We are going to land in Araman and take on fresh water,’ said Inglor.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Haleth. There was no need for a reminder. Thirst had been her constant companion for days.  ‘Where are we going afterwards?’

‘Unless another settlement has been built, Alqualondë is now closest.  We shall land there,’ said Idril.

Inglor looked doubtful.  ‘It would be best if we sailed to Eldamar and asked the help of our own people in Tirion.  My father has...’

‘That would take too much time,’ said Idril adamantly.  ‘We land in Alqualondë.  Of the three Kindreds, the Teleri are the best sailors; or they were in the days of my father.  Is that no longer true?’

‘It’s true,’ croaked Haleth when Inglor refused to answer.

‘Then we make for Alqualondë,’ said Idril.

‘I am not entirely certain our plea for aid would be happily received,’ said Inglor with great reluctance. 

The atmosphere in the ship cooled perceptibly. 

‘My father helped put a stop to the massacre,’ growled Idril.  ‘He risked life and limb to save those people.’

‘I do not doubt the valour of Lord Turukano,’ said Inglor softly.  ‘But the old wounds have not healed.’

‘It is of no consequence,’ said Idril with a sweep of her hand.  ‘My husband is of the Secondborn and Voronwë is of their own kin.  They have no reason to refuse us aid.’

Haleth had severe reservations but Idril was so determined that she dared not give them voice.  So it seemed with Inglor, who continued to row towards the eastern coast of Valinor without further comment, his lips set in a thin, worried line.

‘We’re stopping for water first,’ said Haleth sullenly.

Idril laughed aloud while Inglor smiled at her indignation.  Their reaction annoyed her. From fog and rain they had barely managed to collect enough water for the three of them to survive, let alone wash.  Haleth had been parched for so long that she had almost learned to disregard the discomfort of thirst, but she could not ignore the weakness.

‘It’s the first time in weeks that we’re close to a source of fresh water that won’t set me to sleep for centuries,’ she mumbled.  The moment of fury had passed, taking its burst of energy along with it. Overcome by vertigo, she sank down, her head lolling.

There was a long silence from the back of the ship.  Haleth squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the comment she knew would be coming.

‘There was the rain we collected,’ Inglor reminded her with gentle reproof.

‘And the fog,’ Idril chimed in.

‘I want to drink my fill without having to worry when the next drop will come.  I want to drink until my stomach hurts.  I want to take a bath.’ The last sentence was delivered with particular vehemence.

This was met by an even longer silence.

‘I believe I see the mouth of a stream where it enters the sea.  Let us go there first.’

The next few hours seemed longer than the entire voyage as Haleth watched the coast of Araman grow larger and closer but at a snail’s pace.  The scents of the land, its flowers and trees, drifted to her on stray zephyrs. She barely noticed the plants and the wildlife for all of her attention was fixed upon a stream that met the ocean in a sea of reeds. 

At last the ship sailed into the reeds, Inglor pulling on the oars against the stream’s current.  Haleth, too impatient to wait any longer, leaned over the side of the boat. Cupping her hands together, she scooped the water up to her parched lips.

‘Wait!’ called Idril as Haleth spat the brackish water out of her mouth.

‘The water is still salty,’ said Idril.

With a great heave Haleth pulled herself back into the boat and glared at Idril who, ethereally beautiful, returned her gaze with utter calmness.  Haleth wondered if stating the obvious was a trait of all elves in general or of the descendants of Finwë in particular.

She would have more than enough time to learn.  The reminder of her predicament hit her like a physical blow.  It had been easy to forget her lost mortality when there had been a looming threat of dying but now that it seems she would survive the centuries stretched before her in all of the beautiful comfort and peace that drove her to utter distraction.

Unable to hide her emotions, she sighed aloud and slumped into the boat.

‘Fear not, the water will soon be sweet,’ said Inglor who was rowing against the current. 

Haleth forced a weak smile to her face.  Trust Inglor to completely misinterpret her thoughts.

The ship cleared the reeds and entered the proper stream.  The waterway cut a path through a thick, verdant forest. 

‘The water should be sweet now,’ said Inglor as he steered the ship towards the low bank. 

Haleth bent over the side, scooped up a handful of water and brought it to her lips.  It was the purest, wettest, most wonderful drink she had ever tasted and she drank the rest greedily, scooping more and more into her hands and downing it with loud slurps.

‘Be careful.  It is not advisable to drink too deep or too quickly after such privation,’ Idril said as Haleth leaned out of the boat and scooped up water as quickly as she could.

Haleth hesitated for a moment, her hand poised half way to her lips, then rolled over the gunwale and into the stream.  The icy cold water closed over her head.  For the first instant, she had never felt anything so wonderful in her entire life.  Then it became quite cold.

She resurfaced, puffing and blowing, to the dismayed exclamations of her companions protesting the unexpected shower.

‘Could you not have waited another instant?’ Idril demanded.

‘No,’ said Haleth. Grinning like a maniac, she flailed her hand towards the ship, sending up a terrific geyser that was rewarded by wails of protest.

‘Your clothes are wet!’ cried Inglor. 

‘They needed to be washed in any case,’ shouted Haleth.  It was quite true.  She had lived in the same, salt-encrusted shirt and trousers for days. 

‘You did not empty your pockets first,’ he called.

That would certainly explain why her shirt weighed her down so much.

It was too cold to remain in the water. Haleth paddled for the shore.  The water sloshed out of her boots as she trudged on to dry land, shivering and rubbing her hands to restore some warmth to them.

Idril stepped serenely off the boat and glided into the woods.

‘Where is she going?’ Haleth asked Inglor.

‘Upstream to fill the water skins,’ he replied.  Leaping into the water, he pulled the boat towards the shore.  Haleth, hoping the exertion would be warming, joined him but it was beyond her strength.   She collapsed over the edge of the boat, suddenly unable to stand properly.  Her feet ached with the cold. Realizing she would only be making things more difficult for Inglor, she straightened up only to lose her balance and tumble backwards.  

Inglor caught her before she could land in the water.

‘Rest easy,’ he said as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to shore.

Haleth stiffened in protest, then lay her head against his shoulder.

‘I lack the resilience of the Eldar,’ she whispered.

‘It is of no importance,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ she asked bitterly.

Inglor set her tenderly on the moss and sat beside her.

‘Should it be?’ he asked.

‘Inglor, your people are strong and beautiful and so very skilled at anything they turn their hands to.  I would be cheating you if I insisted upon holding you to your prom…’  She stopped in horror.  The silver betrothal ring which had been such a mystery and then caused so much consternation was gone.

‘Oh no,’ she whispered, blanching.  ‘The ring!  It must have fallen off when I was in the water!’  She stared at her hands in dismay.  ‘My fingers must have shrunk from lack of water. I’ve got to find it,’ she said, struggling to her feet.

‘There is no need, Haleth,’ said Inglor.  He pressed on her shoulders to keep her from diving into the ice-cold stream.

‘But…’ protested Haleth and then fell silent. Her heart fell to the toes of her shabby boots. She had offered Inglor his freedom; it should come as no surprise that he chose to take her at her word.  Still, she would have wept openly if only she had enough moisture to spare for tears.

‘I intend to make a proper set of gold rings as soon as we return to Tirion,’ said Inglor, oblivious to her internal turmoil. 

‘Set?’ asked Haleth without much interest.

‘One for each of us,’ he said.  ‘Elven men wear a golden ring to commemorate their wedding although it is more by custom than necessity.  One elf can look into the eyes of another and know if he is married.’

Haleth’s weakened body went limp with relief. 

‘Inglor?’ she said before he could launch into a detailed history of the laws and customs of the Eldar.

‘Yes?’ he asked innocently.

‘Nothing,’ she said as she put her arm around him and laid her head upon his shoulder.

It was a pity that Haleth did not see the expression of quiet joy upon Inglor’s face as he held her.

They might have remained locked in that position until the end of time except for Idril’s return.

‘The ship! It’s floating downstream!’

The white ship, caught in the current, was indeed drifting downstream by itself.

Idril threw the water skins to the ground and raced into the water, Inglor directly on her heels.

Haleth did her best, and horribly failed, to stifle her laughter at the sight of two elegant elves splashing through water up to their knees while chasing the wayward vessel.   

Anor was shining brilliantly when the small ship sailed into the harbour at Alqualondë, its sail billowing in the breeze.

If any of them had been hoping for a triumphant return, they were sadly disappointed.  The elves of Alqualondë barely spared any of them a glance, except for Haleth whom then regarded from their fishing boats and pleasure crafts with polite, indirect curiosity. 

Haleth stiffened under their scrutiny. 

‘What troubles you?’ Inglor asked quietly.  He was seated at the back of the ship, working the tiller. 

‘Nothing,’ said Haleth, biting the word off.

‘Haleth, I have known you long enough to know that is not the case,’ he said.

‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ she asked with deceptive lightness.

‘I am saying that I know when you are uncomfortable and you are uncomfortable now,’ Inglor insisted.

‘So you are accusing me of lying, then,’ said Haleth tartly.  She swung around, the better to glare at him.

‘There are occasions when I have known you to stretch the truth,’ said Inglor calmly.

Haleth’s mouth dropped open.  ‘And this, I take it, is one of them?’ she demanded icily.

‘Peace, Haleth.  I can see you are unhappy but as far as I know there is no reason to direct your unhappiness at me,’ he said.

Haleth’s jaw closed with an audible snap.

‘Everyone is looking at me,’ she whispered through her teeth.

‘That is natural.  They are curious.  Most have never seen a Secondborn,’ he said with an understated yet eloquent shrug.

‘I feel rather conspicuous,’ she grumbled.

‘It is an awkward experience,’ he said sympathetically.  ‘One grows to accept it, in time.’

Haleth remembered the way women had flocked to Inglor.  She cringed inwardly. Inglor had been routinely mobbed and had never complained while here she was, upset by a few people looking at her. The heat of a blush crept upwards from her neck to the roots of her hair.  This garnered even more polite interest.  By the time they reached the dock their ship had a discrete escort of pleasure crafts and fishing boats. 

‘You would attract less attention in Tirion as the Elves are familiar with you now; or in Avallonë, where many of people are Falathrim and accustomed to mortals,’ he said. 

‘So I’d attract less attention anywhere but here. Thank-you. I feel much better now,’ she growled.

A small crowd was assembled on the dock.  They cheerfully helped tie the ship to the pier, all chattering together while throwing curious glances in Haleth’s direction.

‘Why don’t they look at Idril? Or at you? You’re both far better looking than me,’ she asked Inglor, speaking in her own tongue to not insult their hosts. 

‘They see the likes of Idril and I every day. You, on the other hand, are a novelty, with your exotic appearance,’ said Inglor. 

Haleth glanced down herself in surprise. With her stained, baggy shirt and patched trousers, she hardly looked exotic, at least not by her standards.  But looking at the clean, flowing clothing of the elves, she could understand Inglor’s point.  If she wished to regain some of her anonymity, she would need a new wardrobe.

‘And some of those gathered here are Falathrim who likely speak your language,’ he added helpfully.

Haleth chewed on her lower lip as the heat on her face heralded another blush.  She resolved to wait until the others had left the boat and attracted the crowd’s attention before she moved again.

‘Is King Olwë in residence today?’ Inglor asked as he lightly leapt from the ship to the pier.

‘Yes,’ came the reply.

‘Indeed?’ said Idril, stepping elegantly onto the dock.  ‘If he is available, may we have a word with him?’

‘Whom should I say wishes to speak to him?’ asked the elf who had helped them to land. 

‘Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turukáno, son of Nolofinwë,’ she said.

A dropping pin would have sounded like a thunderclap in the ensuing silence.  All of the attention that had been politely focused on Haleth abruptly shifted to a very regal Idril. 

Haleth sighed in relief.

‘Please, follow me,’ the elf said quickly. 

The crowd parted before them like the tide splitting around a large rock.  The guide led the way with Idril directly on his heels, Inglor and Haleth a little ways behind and an ever-growing crowd of Elves behind them. 

As they walked through the white streets of Alqualondë, Haleth could not help but catch the tone of the stray comments of those who followed.  Mixed with the amazement was another, less positive tone.  She glanced at Inglor, wondering if he had caught the unpleasant undercurrent as well.  If he had, he was wise enough to show no sign of it, but he caught her hand and squeezed it as if giving her warning to keep her peace until they could speak privately.

They came to an elegant palace on the waterside. Unlike the imposing towers of Tirion, King Olwë’s palace was a modest three stories. The smooth walls held the warm, iridescence of mother of pearl and were decorated with a series of sea motifs; fish, shells and ships. It reminded Haleth of Lord Círdan’s abandoned workshop in Mithlond.

They were led into the main entranceway where the guide stopped to speak to a tall, silver-haired individual who seemed unimpressed by the gathering. Calemir was King Olwë’s steward.  Normally the position was not overly taxing; the Teleri were by and large a peaceful people, for the most part given to solving their few disputes amongst themselves.  There was little call for the people to ask to see their King.

So when he heard of the crowd approaching the palace, he had been more than a little surprised.  He was even more surprised when his sister’s daughter’s son, Gilorn, had burst into the palace and breathlessly asked to see the King.

‘King Olwë is ever in his subjects’ service.  The King is dining with his family and guests at the present. I shall be happy to convey any and all requests as soon as he has finished.  Pray, whom, should I say requests an audience?’ said Calemir, pitching his voice to convey just the right level of authority; stern enough to command obedience but gentle enough to not be abrasive. 

‘Pray, tell the King of the Teleri that Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turukáno, has come to Alqualondë. She is in distress and that she most humbly seeks the aid of the King and his Household,’ said Idril.

Calemir stared at the blonde woman in wonder.  When he had first set eyes upon her, he had assumed she was one of the Vanyar; but the Vanyar were invariably humble in their dealings with the other Kindreds while this individual, despite her rumpled appearance and polite words, was quite proud.  Now that he looked closer, he could see the unmistakable signs of the Royal House of the Noldor about her. 

A mist of painful memory rose before his eyes.  His brother and father had died in the Kinslayings.  Calemir had been wounded; but though the physical injury had healed long ago, he could never entirely trust the Noldor.  Neither, he knew, could the rest of his people after so cruel a betrayal.

He was tempted to dismiss the request out of hand.  A quick glance at the shocked faces of the assembled people told him there would be no outcry if he did.  The action would bring reprisals from Tirion, but those could be dealt with through diplomacy.

His gaze flicked over the crowd until it settled upon Inglor.  Calemir groaned inwardly. There was no way he could refuse aid to a descendent of Eärwen, even one with a knack for finding trouble. His King would be most displeased for his loved his daughter to distraction.

‘Greetings, Lord Inglor,’ said Calemir, inclining his head politely.

‘Greetings, Lord Calemir.’ Inglor returned the salutation. 

An interesting creature stood by Inglor’s side.  It was an outlandishly dressed female with uneven, shoulder-length, two-coloured hair.  Calemir could not help but stare for in all the long years of his life he had never seen such an odd looking individual.  Her hair was mostly the colour of sand, save at the corners of her temples where it was grey.  Her skin did not seem to fit properly, particularly around the corners of her eyes where it was distinctly wrinkled.  

‘I see,’ said Calemir.  The odd creature was examining her surroundings with an intensity that made him nervous, though he could not understand why.  He was seized by the irrational impulse to hide anything of value. 

‘I shall inform the King that Lord Inglor, Lady Idril and…?’ he trailed off, looking significantly at Haleth.

‘Haleth,’ said Inglor.

‘Haleth? What a strange name,’ thought Calemir.

‘Lord Inglor, Lady Idril and Lady Haleth,’ said Calemir. ‘Please follow me.’

Leaving the crowd behind, he led the unlikely trio to a well-furnished, private chamber.  A large window looked over the harbour.

‘I shall send someone in with refreshments presently,’ said Calemir.  ‘If there is anything else you require, you have only to ask.’

‘You have my thanks, Lord Calemir,’ said Inglor smoothly. 

Calemir smiled as he closed the door behind him and went to inform the King of his unexpected guests. 

Olwë, King of the Teleri, along with his wife and an honoured guest were in the palace’s private garden by the seaside.  Fragrant bushes offered privacy on the sides, but the small green space opened to the water.  The vista was filled with the white sailed crafts darting about the harbour.

The King’s first reaction upon seeing Calemir standing discretely near the back of the garden was annoyance.  Surely the steward could take care of the routine matters of running the palace.  He caught Calemir’s eye and frowned in displeasure. 

Only when the steward refused the tacit dismissal and remained standing, albeit at a discrete distance so as not to interfere with the conversation, did Olwë relent.

Excusing himself from his wife and guest he approached the steward.

‘Yes?’ he asked calmly.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Calemir, his voice filled with genuine apology, ‘But there are several visitors newly come to the palace who crave an audience.’

The King of the Teleri regarded his steward with a long, cool gaze until the man began to look uncomfortable.

‘Who are these guests?’ he finally asked.

‘The first is your kinsman Inglor,’ said Calemir.  ‘The others are Idril Celebrindal, the daughter of Turukáno and a woman by the name of Haleth.’

Olwë sighed.  He remembered Turukáno.  Nolofinwë’s son had stood by his side to stop the slaughter all those years ago.  He had an obligation to at least offer hospitality to his daughter.  As little love as he had for the Noldor, he would honour this obligation.

‘From whence came the Exile?’ Olwë wondered aloud.

‘Alas, I do not know,’ said Calemir.

‘And the third one, what did you say her name was?’

‘Haleth?’ said Calemir.

‘Haleth.  Yes.’  The name was familiar to Olwë.  He had recently received a letter from his daughter, Eärwen, describing Inglor’s entanglement with the Aftercomer.  In fact, she must have been the one who had stolen one of his peoples’ ships.  It did nothing to recommend her to him.

‘She is one of the Secondborn,’ said Olwë. ‘Have you seen them before, Calemir?’

‘Several times, long ago, but only the men and only from a distance,’ said Calemir.

‘Indeed,’ said Olwë thoughtfully. ‘See to their needs. Make them comfortable.  When they are ready, bring them to me.’

‘It’s a nice room,’ said Haleth. 

Nice was an understatement.  The room was lavish with a high, vaulted ceiling decorated in paintings depicting the making of the Swan ships.  Tapestries in hues of blue, green and white hung upon the walls.  The furniture was relatively plain; two wooden chairs, a bench and a table.  There were no cushions on the chairs.  Haleth assumed elvish backsides were less prone to numbness than those of the mortal variety.

Both Inglor and Idril had seated themselves in the chairs.  They looked out of the window, watching the boats skim about the harbour.  Both had an air of calm patience that drove Haleth to distraction.

She had always assumed that being immortal meant one would be patient.  Now that she had become that way herself she had grown less able to wait. She prowled restlessly up and down the room, examining the tapestries for an instant before allowing herself to be distracted by the activity in the harbour, her mind racing the entire time.

The Teleri, she knew, were not at all happy to have a Noldorin Exile in their city requesting help.  Inglor had probably realized this when he had suggested they go to Tirion or to Avallonë instead.  If not for the lack of water, he might have stood firm against Idril’s insistence to travel to Alqualondë. 

Haleth’s hand automatically moved to twist the silver ring on her index finger but her fingers encountered nothing but flesh.  Her heart sank at the reminder of the loss of the ring. Inglor had insisted he was not upset by it but Haleth doubted his sincerity. 

Standing near the back of the room, she examined his profile silhouetted against the brightness of the window. He was perfection.  If Idril were not present she would…

The door opened, interrupting her contemplation.

A woman bearing a tray of food entered.  Examining Haleth with frank curiosity, she placed the tray upon the table and delivered a phrase in Telerin.

‘What did she say?’ asked Haleth before Inglor could reply.

‘She asked if we are in need of anything.  I was about to tell her that we are not,’ he said.

‘Could you please ask her if I could borrow some clothing?’ said Haleth.

Inglor regarded her, an open, unspoken question on his face.

‘I’m not really dressed to meet a king,’ Haleth explained, gesturing at her worn clothing. ‘I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful.’ 

‘King Olwë will hardly mind, especially when he learns of the privations you have faced,’ said Inglor, puzzled.

‘I never said he would, but I would feel happier,’ she said firmly.

The faintest shadow of a smile crossed Inglor’s face before he passed on the request to the Telerin woman.

Several hours later the three travellers were escorted into the presence of King Olwë. 

Haleth, who was always apprehensive in the presence of authority, would have lagged far behind the others if Inglor, who was more than aware of her discomfort, had not been holding her hand.

‘What about the ship, Inglor?’ she whispered.

‘It is at the dock.  You could see it from the window,’ he said.

‘I meant the one I borrowed the night I learned…when…’ she trailed off, unable to finish. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be very popular here.’

The King, who Inglor had assured her seldom dwelt on ceremony, was in his garden awaiting them. 

Despite Inglor’s assurances, Haleth was uncomfortable.  They headed towards a door that led to the outside and she twisted her hand in an attempt to break Inglor’s grip. 

Inglor’s expression did not change at all as he tightened his grasp and shifted to prevent her from escaping. 

Although she knew it was useless, Haleth struggled against him nonetheless.  The silent battle continued until they were out in the garden and she noticed the small group of elves seated around a round table. 

All three had silver hair, which was unusual enough in and of itself, but one was quite familiar.  

‘There’s Lord Círdan!’ Haleth whispered excitedly to Inglor.

‘Yes,’ agreed Inglor in a way that told Haleth he did not understand her excitement.

His puzzlement annoyed Haleth, who, until she had set eyes upon the Shipwright, had not realized how much she had longed for some familiar figure from her life in Middle-earth. 

‘Should we tell him about the ship in his old workshop?’ she said wickedly.

‘No,’ said Inglor with unaccustomed heat.

‘Very well,’ she said with a shrug.  ‘I would have thought…’

‘Hush! The King speaks.’

A tall, silver haired man rose to his feet.  A silver circlet bound his hair, a single pearl was set upon his brow.

He spoke in a sonorous voice in Telerin.  The language was close enough to Sindarin that Haleth felt she should understand it.  She thought she could almost understand a few words, but the two tongues had drifted apart for millennia; since long before the Trees had ceased to shine.  After several minutes of intense listening, she sadly had to admit that she could not comprehend a word of it and would have to content herself with gleaning what meaning she could from body language and facial expressions; not that those subtle signals, which seemed to convey so much to the elves, would offer her much information.

She was pleasantly surprised when Inglor began to translate the Telerin into Quenya.

‘I, Olwë, King of the Teleri and Siliviel our Queen bid welcome to you, Idril Celebrindal; your unexpected return after so many years will be a boon to your family.  We will immediately dispatch messengers to Tirion to bear the good news to them.

‘And welcome to you, Haleth of the Secondborn.  Never before has one of your people set foot in our city,’ Inglor finished, switching to Sindarin so she would understand better.

Haleth nodded politely to the King, who was watching her with an intensity that made her nervous. He had to be thinking about the ship she had borrowed. At least the Numenoreans had concentrated their efforts upon Tirion rather than Alqualondë.

‘Please convey my thanks to the King,’ said Idril.  ‘And please ask him if he would be so kind as to loan unto us a ship and several crewmen so that we may rescue my husband and Voronwë.’

Inglor hesitated in delivering the request. 

Haleth’s eyes darted between him and Idril.  Inglor’s face was the mask of mild concern.  It was an expression she recognized.  He had a perfectly good reason to not pass along the request, but knew that his refusal, much less the reason for it, would not be well received. 

Idril seemed to know what the expression meant without the benefit of years of experience in Inglor interpretation.  The shadow of a frown darkened her features. 

‘I understand your urgency, Lady Idril, but diplomacy might be better served if we are somewhat more circumspect,’ Inglor finally said, still in Sindarin.

Haleth barely heard the exchange.  Both Olwë and his wife, the queen, were examining her with frank curiosity.  Heat rose in her cheeks and she quickly turned her attention to Círdan instead. 

The bearded elf Lord was keenly watching the exchange between Idril and Inglor.  He could, of course, understand every word.

‘Greetings, Lord Círdan,’ said Haleth with deliberate loudness. 

All conversation abruptly stopped and everyone stared at her.  Haleth’s face grew as hot as Aulë’s forge.  She had just proven herself to have exceedingly bad manners and had likely confirmed all of the King and Queen’s doubts in the civility of her people. 

Círdan, who had no illusions about Haleth’s manners, did not seem in the least taken aback by her shouting. 

‘Greetings, Haleth,’ he said in Sindarin, infusing the name with a certain amount of surprise; she had never used it with him.  ‘It is good to see you again although I must admit to no little surprise.’

Haleth reached for the silver ring on her index finger only to discover it was no longer there.  She looked to Inglor for help, but he was either too aghast as her display of bad manners or too embarrassed at the reminder that Círdan could understand Sindarin to be of any assistance.

She examined her toes to avoid making eye contact with any of the others while the silence expanded to an explosive size.

‘What an interesting pathway; it appears to be made of shells,’ she babbled.  ‘The Telerin artisans must be talented indeed to take such delicate materials and transform them so they can bear the weight of a full grown individual and remain intact.

‘Not that any of you are large,’ she continued.  ‘And all of the Firstborn tread with exceptional lightness.  But that is not so of the Secondborn, yet they bear my weight without injury.’

The silence took on a thunderous quality.

‘Arafinwë, the King of the Noldor crafted that pathway with his own hands,’ said King Olwë.

Haleth winced.  If Arafinwë had been king, the path must have been made after the Kinslaying.  Biting her lip, she looked wistfully at the waters of the harbour.  If it had not been for Idril blocking her path, she would have charged between King Olwë and the others to dive into the harbour and swim away. 

Such actions would hardly help Idril’s cause, so Haleth stood her ground and wished for a crack to appear in the earth and swallow her whole.

The Telerin Queen, who had not uttered a word, finally spoke in gracious tones. 

‘The King appreciates your interest in his palace and thanks you for it.  Please forgive us if we seem somewhat abrupt.  We have never met one of the Secondborn and we are very curious.  Please, sit with us, you and your friend and our kinsman.  There is much we would ask you,’ Inglor translated.

‘Nothing would please me more,’ Haleth said, fixing a sad, forced smile to her face.

Queen Siliviel patted the empty chair beside her and spoke.

‘Please be seated.  And your companions, too,’ Inglor translated.

Several hours passed.  The discussion was, perforce, somewhat disjointed as either Inglor or Círdan had to translate. 

‘Do all of your people have two tone hair?’ said Círdan, translating for Siliviel. 

‘No,’ said Haleth honestly.  ‘Only those who are somewhere between youth and old age.’

This statement, when duly translated, caused confusion.

Finally Círdan addressed her in Sindarin.  ‘I have attempted to explain but my understanding is not entirely clear.  What is old age?’

‘It is the state of mortals who live more than a few decades.  What is it you elves call it?  The weariness that sets upon us and ultimately leads to our deaths,’ answered Haleth.

When Círdan had finished translating her reply, the King immediately asked another question which Inglor answered without bothering to translate. 

Haleth could guess the nature of the question.  She sensed the strange, hollow place where her Gift had once resided.  To her surprise, the emptiness had become smaller.  She might share in the fate of the Elves but she had retained her mortal capacity to acclimate to new situations.  Or perhaps the prospect of being married to Inglor made thoughts of eternity easier to bear.

The conversation slowly ground to an end when Idril, who had been silent the entire time, could contain herself no longer.

‘Your Majesty, you are kind and generous,’ she said, trusting to either Inglor or Círdan to pass the message on for her.  ‘I thank you for welcoming my friends and I to your home and I thank you for the hospitality you have shown us.  Please do not think me too forward, but there is a boon I would request.’

Olwë looked expectantly to Inglor.  When he refused to translate, he turned to Círdan instead. 

With a small, apologetic smile in Inglor’s general direction, Círdan relayed the message to the King.

‘What would you have of me, daughter of Turukano?’ Círdan translated.

‘I would have a ship, only to use for a little time, and a crew, such sailors as would go willingly on a voyage of mercy.’

Círdan began to translate, but Olwë held up a hand to stop him.

‘I beg the indulgence of our guests and of you, my Queen, but this is a subject Lady Idril and I must discuss in privacy.  If you would be so kind?’ he said in perfect Quenya.

Murmurring their acquiescence, the others retreated from the garden, leaving Idril alone with Olwë.

Inglor, who was familiar with the palace, led Haleth back to their rooms.

‘You must have known Olwë could speak Quenya.  Why did you not tell me?’ she demanded in a loud whisper after then had said good-bye to the Queen and Lord Círdan. 

‘I believed you would have known,’ said Inglor. 

Haleth gaped at him.

‘How could I have known?’ she demanded icily.

‘How could a King have dealings with another people and not speak their language?’ Inglor shrugged. 

‘My King had dealings with many different peoples.  He saw no need to learn their languages!’ said Haleth.

‘I beg your pardon, Haleth, but if your King did not, his ambassadors surely did.  What sort of ruler would allow his enemies to plot and plan in his presence, which would surely happen if they spoke a language which he did not?’

‘I thought Elves were above those things,’ said Haleth after a moment of stunned silence.

‘We are, for the most part,’ said Inglor.  ‘But there is always the chance.  Sadly, King Olwë learned long ago that friends can unexpectedly become enemies.’

‘Oh,’ said Haleth.  It was all she could think of to say.

They had each been given a suite of rooms for their use.  Haleth was somewhat surprised to discover her rooms were of the same size and furnished in a manner similar to the others.  She expressed her amazement to Inglor.

‘Why should you not bear the same honour as either Idril or myself?’ he asked, surprised by her surprise.

‘Because you are…’ she paused, realizing yet again that she still did not know Inglor’s exact relationship to Arafinwë, Eärwen or Olwë.

‘Because I’m a thief and obviously of lower rank than you,’ she said.

He examined her with an air of mild bewilderment that she had learned to interpret as stunned silence. 

‘Why would you say that?’ he asked.

‘Inglor! I took one of their ships!  I know how these people feel about their ships.  Besides, look at the way I am dressed!’  She gestured at herself and then remembered she was wearing one of the simple, flowing gowns of the Eldar. 

‘You look lovely,’ he said.

A blush raced up Haleth’s face.  ‘Well, maybe, but usually I’m the farthest thing from.  On Middle-earth, I’d have been given a room in the attic, assuming I was let in the house at all.’

‘No one ever insisted you sleep in the attic in Middle-earth,’ said Inglor.

‘Not while I travelled with you, Inglor.  You look respectable.  Everyone trusts you the instant they see you. I rode along on the goodwill you made,’ she said.

He sat back and looked at her over his steepled fingers. ‘You may discover the situation to be somewhat different now,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Haleth, stunned. 

Before Inglor could reply, and Haleth could tell from his expression that he had no intention of answering, Idril burst into the room.

She began to speak, took one look at Inglor, thought better of it and paced the room instead.

Haleth and Inglor exchanged glances; Haleth’s was questioning, Inglor’s was serene.

Idril stormed about the room.  She reminded Haleth of a large, angry bear trapped in a cage that was too small. 

Believing a question from Inglor would be better received that a comment from her, Haleth kept silent.  She watched Idril tear around, her features twisted into a deep, angry frown, and waited for Inglor to speak.

It finally dawned on Halleth that Inglor was not going to say a word.

‘Fine,’ thought Haleth who could no longer stand the charged silence.  ‘Since I seem to be the Asker of Stupid Questions, I’ll ask.’

‘I take it the conversation with the King did not have the hoped for result,’ she said.

Idril paused in mid-step and glared at her. 

‘Yes, I imagine you could say that,’ said Idril with brittle calmness.

‘He refused your request?’ asked Haleth.

‘Of course not,’ said Idril, throwing herself into a chair.  ‘King Olwë is too hospitable to refuse outright.  Instead he devised many reasons why it would be impossible to grant us the loan of a either a ship or a crew.’

‘Were the reasons valid?’ asked Haleth.

‘Valid enough that I could not challenge them without seeming a churl,’ replied Idril.  Her knuckles were turning white where they grasped the arm of the chair. 

‘The Teleri are loath to help one of the Noldor.  Even one whose father helped to stop the Kinslaying.  Noble deeds, it seems, are easily forgotten while the infamous ones remain ever fresh in memory.’

Haleth sighed.  The same was certainly true of her own people.  It should come as no surprise to learn the Firstborn were no different. All the same, she was still disappointed.  In her limited experience with them she had believed they were above such things.  Inglor certainly was.  Inglor, she was beginning to learn, was an exception.

‘I shall speak to the King on your behalf,’ said Inglor.

‘No,’ said Idril firmly, shaking her head.  ‘I will not beg the rightness and justice of my cause.  If King Olwë will not grant a reasonable request, let the shame be upon him.’

‘But you will not be…’ began Inglor in the calm, earnest voice of reason that always drove Haleth to distraction.

‘I said no!’ cried Idril, pounding her fist onto the arm of the chair for emphasis.

The three fell into an uncomfortable silence.

‘We could continue to Tirion,’ Inglor finally said. 

‘That would take too much time,’ said Idril.

Haleth unwisely opened her mouth to protest.  ‘Tuor and Voronwë have been asleep on that beach for several thousand years.  Is a week or two going to make that much of a difference?’

She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth for Idril glared at her with enough intensity to make a balrog flinch.

‘Then we’ll restock our own ship and sail back to the island ourselves,’ said Haleth.

‘That ship is too small,’ said Idril.

‘For someone with no ideas of her own, you certainly excel at pointing out the flaws in everyone else’s,’ snapped Haleth.

‘This bickering is of no use.’ Inglor leapt out of his chair and placed himself between the two women.  ‘We are all weary.  Let us rest the remainder of the night.  The morning may reveal another path.’

‘Fine,’ said Haleth.  ‘Good night.’

She stomped into her own rooms and lay down.  Sleep proved impossible as Telerin beds proved to be almost as lacking in padding as Telerin chairs.  Although she had slept quite soundly in far less comfortable places, Haleth found it impossible to drift away. 

Long before the dawn had begun to lighten the eastern sky, Haleth rose up from her bed to look out of the window. 

The room she had been given was on the second floor.  Below could be seen the docks and ships of the Telerin royal family and beyond them the piers and boats of Olwë’s people.  Many were moored for the night but just as many still plied the waters of the harbour for night did not hold the same peril in the Blessed Realm as it did in Middle-earth. 

Haleth watched the boats play upon the water, their sails silver in the starlight.  Most of the ships were small pleasure craft that would comfortably carry one or two people.  With little or no space for storage, they would be of no use in a prolonged sea voyage. 

She switched her attention to the docks.  There were several ships there that would be large enough to accommodate five people and their supplies. 

Without stopping to consider the wisdom of her actions, she crawled out of the window and shinnied down the wall, intent on a walk.

The sun was just beginning to rise before she returned to her room, climbing an ancient ivy that spread its branches beneath her window. 

She looked at the rumpled blanket on the bed, wondering if she should try to sleep for an hour or so, then straightened the covering and went directly for the door.  There was little chance of her resting until she had told the others what she had found.

Both Inglor and Idril were in the common room.  Haleth could not be certain either of them had slept although she doubted it.  Elves required far less rest than she did.

‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. 

‘Yes,’ said Idril, her tone rather stiff.  ‘Haleth, please allow me to apologize.’

‘For what?’ asked Haleth, who was too busy with her own plot to remember the disagreement of the previous evening. 

‘For our falling out last night,’ said Idril.  ‘You were quite correct.  I should have been offering my own ideas rather than finding fault with yours and Inglor’s.’

‘Well, here’s another one for you to find fault with,’ said Haleth, who was too excited to be side tracked.  ‘There are several ships large enough to carry five people on the docks and at least two of them have been stocked with sufficient provisions for our purposes.’

‘Haleth,’ said Inglor slowly.  ‘I hope you are not suggesting we appropriate a ship without permission.’

‘Borrowing.  We would just be borrowing it.  We will return it in perfect condition and, I am certain Idril and her family could make it more than worth the while of the owners, who obviously aren’t using it anyways.’

‘If they are not using it, why is it fully stocked?’ asked Inglor.

‘Precisely!  Who would leave a fully stocked ship at the dock in such a manner?  The owner, poor thing, has likely lost some of his senses.  We would really be doing him a favour by borrowing his ship and using it for a good cause.  It will keep the supplies from going to waste.’

‘Haleth, we are of the Royal House of the Noldor,’ said Inglor gravely.  ‘We cannot sail away with a ship – especially not a Telerin ship – that does not belong to us and was not freely loaned to us! It would cause a terrible diplomatic incident.’

‘Then blame it on me. Say it was my idea and blame it on a misunderstanding arising from Secondborn customs,’ said Haleth, who had considered this and was rather proud of her solution.

Idril looked as though she was ready to accept this idea.  Inglor was another matter entirely.

‘Haleth,’ he said.  ‘It took centuries for King Arafinwë to regain the trust of the Teleri.  I cannot condone stealing…’

‘Borrowing!’ Haleth shouted over his objection.

‘Stealing one of their ships!’ Inglor concluded. 

‘Perhaps I can save you this decision by offering my own ship and the services of my crew?’

The three of them whirled about to find Lord Círdan had entered the room unannounced. 

‘Unless you are intent upon borrowing one,’ he said with amusement.

‘No, Lord Círdan. Your gracious offer is most welcome,’ said Inglor with obvious relief.

‘You have my thanks, Lord Círdan,’ said Idril, bowing her head.

To Haleth’s surprise, the Shipwright turned to her as if asking her opinion.

‘Could you and your crew remain below so it looks as though we’re borrowing it?’

Haleth dodged out of the way of one of Círdan’s sailors as he adjusted the Gwaerandir’s rectangular sail. This sail wasn't like the plain square of cloth on the vessel that had taken her and Inglor to Valinor. This sail was beautifully decorated with the Shipwright's device.

Well obviously it was. Círdan had had several millennia to furnish this ship. It was no surprise that every bit of it was perfect, the wood washed and polished to a golden tone. The sail was a work of art. Even the ropes gleamed in the sun.

It was amazing what one could do when one had the time, the ability and the will.

She sidled out of another sailor’s way. He did not comment as he passed the rope around her and tied it off, his hands a blur of motion.

Haleth watched him in awe. The Falathrim were amazing sailors. They worked the ship as though they had been born to it. It was a pleasure to watch them trim the sail this way and that without ever exchanging a word; they did not even bother to curse at Haleth for being underfoot.

She wondered if they were too polite to tell her to move or if they were so accustomed to moving around obstacles that it was unworthy of comment.  She also wondered how long she would have to stay in their road before they told her to go away.

As tempted as she was to find out, it would be rude. So she made her way to the stern of the ship where Círdan himself was manning the large oar that steered the craft.

They nodded in silent greeting to each other.

Haleth wondered how Círdan knew which way to steer the ship. He had undoubtedly spoken to Inglor about the location of the island, but how he could tell where he was without a map or the stars baffled Haleth.

'I imagine it should take us another three days to reach our destination,' he said, answering her unspoken question.

'Oh?' said Haleth without thinking. 'That seems rather quick.'

'The Gwaerandir is somewhat faster than the ship you sailed in,' said Círdan with a hint of a smile. 'And we have the advantage of knowing where we are going.'

'We knew where we were going,' said Haleth stoutly.

Círdan gave her a sidelong look.

'We were exploring,' she huffed.

‘Indeed,’ said Círdan. ‘I have found that is always takes longer to get to a place when one goes there for the first time.’

‘True enough,’ said Haleth with a shrug. There seemed no point in being annoyed with the serene Círdan. It was his ship, after all. He could toss her overboard if she gave him too much trouble.

‘It is an odd thing, though,’ he continued and then, in typical Elvish fashion, stopped just before he got to the interesting part, his features arranging themselves into a mild frown.

‘What is an odd thing?’ asked Haleth, wondering what could generate such a huge reaction from the Shipwright.

‘When we were in Middle-earth, my people and I, we sailed.’

'Yes,’ said Haleth, her shoulders slumping in disappointment. Of course the Falathrim sailed. They were known for it. The Falathrim sailed, the Sylvan Elves lived in the forest and sang annoying songs and the Noldor made things and caused trouble. There was no big revelation after all.

‘We knew every bit of coastline,’ he continued, ‘Even the coastline after…’ , his gaze drifted to the southeast.

Haleth’s eyes turned in the same direction as though they were drawn by a loadstone. The distant haze was a little darker in the area where Númenor had been. She chewed her lip as the expected tide of homesickness washed over her.

Círdan continued to stare into the distance, then he turned back to Haleth.

‘After the Straight Road was hidden to mortals we explored all the new coastlines, even to the Gates of Dawn.’

‘I thought the Gates of Dawn were always there,’ said Haleth.

‘My people were sailors as well,’ she said gruffly, avoiding his gaze. The dark smudge grew suspiciously blurry.  It must be raining.

They stood in silence, gazing to the southeast.

‘And as sailors, you explored,’ said Círdan.

Haleth nodded wordlessly.

‘Yet in all of the time they have had, no one in the Blessed Realm has bothered to explore the Enchanted Islands,’ he said.

There was an edge of anger in his voice. Haleth looked at him in surprise. His expression was as calm as ever but his knuckles were white upon the steering oar.

Haleth swallowed hard and tried to make herself small. Inglor was frightening when irritated, but she could understand the reason for his anger; she was usually the cause of it. Círdan, by Elvish standards, was livid. It was a wonder the steering oar didn’t snap in his hands. What had she said this time?

‘I imagine the threat of sleeping forever kept people away,’ said Haleth. Her voice sounded high and thin in her own ears.

Círdan looked at her as though he had forgotten she was there.

‘I apologize,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘You have shamed me. You have shamed us all.’

‘Me?’ spluttered Haleth, pointing at herself. ‘Whatever I did…I apologize…I did not mean…’

‘Hush, child. Of course you meant no harm. We were so busy enjoying the peace of the Blessed Realm that we forgot.’

‘Forgot?’ squeaked Haleth, unable to stop herself.

'Did you think Earendil and Tuor were the only two who ever sailed Westward to beg help from the Valar?’ he asked sadly.

‘I know at least one other person stupid enough to have tried,’ she thought.

‘I sent messengers into the West before the Straight Road was open. It was a hopeless mission, but we were desperate.’ Círdan gazed into the distance. Haleth guessed he was not seeing the ocean before him but mariners and friends he had not seen in over an Age. ‘Morgoth’s hordes were advancing on every front. Eglarest and Brithombar had both fallen. The sons of Fëanor had ravaged the Havens at the mouth of the Sirion. What hope did we have against the Enemy when we had turned upon one another?

‘I sent them, knowing that they were going to their deaths. And they went.’

Haleth thought of the choking smoke from the unholy altars of Armenolos and the pall of fear that perpetually hung over her grandfather’s home in Númenor. And she thought of her friends, fighting against the tide of darkness, knowing it was futile.

‘They would have gone in any case, Lord Círdan, even if you had not told them. Never doubt that.’

Círdan drew a deep breath.

‘Do you believe that makes it any easier?’

Haleth paused to consider, watching the distant, dark suggestion of her ruined home. For the first time she wondered if this was how her grandfather had felt when he had found her in the hold of his ship so many years ago. 

‘No,’ she finally said, her voice thick. ‘But it was still their choice.’

‘Yes, as it was my choice to send them. And as it is now my responsibility to find them all and bring them all back home,’ he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Home. The word echoed in the emptiness in Haleth’s heart. The Elves were lucky; at least they had a home to go to. She furiously blinked away the tears that were burning at the corners of her eyes. The world swam before her. A white dot bobbed up and down in the sea between the Gwaerandir and the shadow of her home.

She swatted the tears away, muttering a curse at the wind.

The white dot remained.

She leaned over the railing as far as safely possible, straining to see into the distance.

‘Lord Círdan, can you sail any faster?’ she asked.

‘Not until the wind shifts,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because I believe we’re being followed.’

Haleth leaned over the stern to get a better look at the small, white smudge glistening in the distant haze.  No matter how hard she squinted or turned her head she could not make out anything more than a dot.  She leaned forward further and further until her feet came off the deck. 

‘Be careful lest you fall,’ Círdan said.

‘I can swim,’ replied Haleth absently.

‘I do not doubt your aquatic prowess,’ said Círdan. ‘But I doubt you could swim all the way to Tol Eressëa and pulling you out of the sea could prove troublesome.’

‘Oh,’ said Haleth.  She seemed surprised at how far over the stern she had positioned herself.  She pushed herself back onto the deck, her feet landing with a thump.

‘Lord Círdan, are there settlements along the eastern shores of the Pelori?’ she asked.

‘There is Alqualondë, of course.  My understanding is there are several small fishing villages along the coast.’

‘Thank goodness,’ she muttered with a sigh of relief.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, confused.

‘It must be a fisher’s craft, or someone going to visit one of the villages in that ship,’ she said.

Círdan glanced at the tiny ship in the distance.  It was larger than it had been when he had first mentioned it to Haleth. 

‘No,’ he said.  It is not a Telerin ship, nor does it belong to my people.’

‘How can you tell?’ Haleth demanded, frowning and leaning over the stern again.

‘The lines of it are wrong, that ship is of Noldorin build.’

Haleth blanched and stiffened. The last time Círdan had seen a mortal with that reaction had been when the Havens at the Mouth of the Sirion had been invaded.  The daystar’s light darkened as the memory played in Círdan’s mind. He recalled the sons of Fëanor and their followers, their fell swords gleaming red in the starlight as they attacked the miserable collection of hovels where the refugees of Beleriand had gathered.

Haleth’s voice impinged on the cloud of memory. ‘Is there a device on the sail?’ she asked, her voice strangled and far away.

‘Yes,’ said Círdan as he returned his gaze to the open ocean at the bow of the ship.  The vessel had veered off course while he had been conversing with the immortal mortal.  He adjusted with steering oar by the smallest fraction, grateful for the distraction.

There was a small snort from Haleth.  She was looking at him expectantly but he could not guess why.  Her shoulders sagged.  ‘Could you please tell me what it is?’ she asked stiffly.

Círdan did not immediately reply.  Mortals were impatient by nature; this one moreso than most.  Another Firstborn would recognize the signs of uncomfortable memory and end the conversation but Haleth was Secondborn and he would have to make allowances.

She was practically hopping by the time he glanced over his shoulder.  ‘The sail is emblazoned with the fountain.  See how the diamond water droplets sparkle in the sunlight?’

‘Ecthelion!’ The whispered exclamation was pronounced with terror. Haleth’s face went as white as milk.  Her mouth gaped open and closed like a fish torn from the water and she ducked beneath the rail of the ship.

‘Are you well?’ asked Círdan, surprised by her behavior.  Mortals, he knew, were prone to sicknesses that never afflicted the Firstborn.  Haleth, whose appearance had not been healthy at the beginning of the trip, looked deathly ill.  

She stared up at him, her eyes as round as saucers.  ‘Do you think he saw me?’ she whispered, breathless, her face entreating him for reassurance.

Compassion stirred in Círdan’s heart.  Haleth was terrified but he could not imagine what might have happened to her at the hands of Ecthelion to warrant such fear. Another ancient memory surfaced; the face of a child, Gil-Galad, son of the doomed Fingon, looking up at him and begging him to say that his father was safe and well. 

Then, as now, his words held scant comfort.

‘I am sorry, Haleth, but you spent a fair amount of time hanging over the stern. Ecthelion’s eyesight is at least as good as mine.  If he is searching for you, he could not help but see you.’

Haleth snorted and jumped to her feet, chewing her lip.

‘Do you think you can out-sail him?’ she asked finally, her tone casual.

Círdan looked over his shoulder at the tiny boat dancing on the ocean swells. The white ship had turned to follow the Gwaerandir.   ‘For a time,’ he said mildly.

‘Oh.  Only for a time,’ echoed Haleth with a shrug.  She sounded vaguely disappointed.

‘We will eventually come to the island and then we must need stop,’ Círdan reminded her gently.

‘You can’t out-sail him?’ she asked.

Círdan looked straight ahead and made a minute adjustment to the steering oar.  Haleth’s posture was too tense.  There was more to this situation than she was admitting.  He had played this game many times before and was confident he could coax the information out of her; especially with the threat of Ecthelion catching them.  He glanced over his shoulder.  The white Noldorin vessel was perceptibly closer. 

‘We are in the Blessed Realm,’ he said after careful consideration. ‘Even if we had been at odds in the past, and we were not, why should I need to out-sail Ecthelion’s ship?’

Haleth inhaled deeply.  She looked as though she was carefully weighing her words.  It was an expression that would have surprised Inglor.  ‘Forgive me, Lord Círdan, we may be in the Blessed Realm but politics remain.’

He gave her a long, appraising look. 

‘Politics may, but politics are hardly as dire as Oaths.  There is nothing to fear.’

‘Politics will not set upon you with sword and flame, but it will keep you from your purpose just the same.’  She paused, allowing him time to imagine how this might be accomplished.

‘You are beginning to sound like a Firstborn,’ he said with some amusement.

‘Am I?’ she said, a sour expression on her face.  ‘Then allow me to be blunt, like the Secondborn that I am.  In all this time, no one but us has gone in search of the lost sailors on the Enchanted Isles.  You seem to believe this is due to some sort of lack of character on the part of your people. 

‘Don’t try to deny it.  You just said so yourself,’ she said to his taken aback expression.  ‘I put forward that it may not be a lack of character at all.  Someone may not want the sleepers rescued.’

One glance around the deck told Círdan that his sailors were listening intently. There were undoubtedly others who could hear them.

‘Haleth, please…’ he began.

‘I’m not shouting. You needn’t shush me like a misbehaving child,’ she said fervently.

‘You forget where you are.  You do not need to shout to be heard by everyone on deck,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice calm and even.  ‘And if you were a sailor as you claim, you would know how sound carries over water.’

Haleth’s shoulders slumped as she raised her eyes to the sky. ‘Forgive me, Lord Círdan.  The ears of the Firstborn are keen but I doubt that even an Elf Lord as mighty as Ecthelion of the Fountain can hear us from this distance.’

‘Why are you afraid of him?’

Haleth’s mouth froze in an open oh.  ‘I will never learn to fence words with an Elf,’ she muttered. Círdan let the comment go without comment.  It had not been meant for him.

‘You are frightened of him,’ he said, one eye on Haleth and the other on his crew.

‘Lord Ecthelion would never allow any harm to come to me,’ said Haleth, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

‘If you are not frightened of him then perhaps you are frightened of what he may intend for you.  You have reason to believe he is hunting for you, although for what purpose I cannot guess.’

‘I already told you,’ said Haleth with a shrug, ‘Lord Ecthelion would never allow any harm to come to me.’

‘And this somehow troubles you.’

‘Please excuse me, Lord Círdan.  The light of the daystar upon the water is too bright for my mortal eyes.  I must retire below.’  He watched Haleth’s stiff retreating back.

~*~

Haleth was about go below deck when the door popped open and Haleth stood nose to chest with Inglor.  At least she assumed it was Inglor.  Whoever it was wore Inglor’s shirt.

He grasped her shoulders and Haleth looked up into Inglor’s concerned eyes. ‘What troubles you?’ he asked gently.

Haleth drew a deep breath, determined to not sound like a frightened child. ‘Ecthelion of the Fountain follows us,’ she replied.

‘How close?’ Inglor asked his expression grim.

‘Not very close, at least not for now.   I can barely see his ship,’ she said.

‘Then how do you know…’ he began.

‘Lord Círdan sees a fountain upon the sail.  He says the ship was made by the Noldor,’ said Haleth, her voice rising steadily as she spoke.

Inglor did not answer.  He looked at the white dot that followed their ship and frowned. Then he looked up at the sky, his face the picture of intense concentration.  He closed his eyes and shook his head.  ‘Alas, I cannot,’ he murmured.

This did nothing to reassure Haleth.

‘Inglor, what are we going to do?’ Haleth whispered. ‘He means to drag me to Lórien and I cannot stop him.’

‘Haleth, believe me.  No one can force you to do anything against your will,’ he said.

Haleth stared at him, her mouth working soundlessly.  Since she had awakened in Master Elrond’s new home it seemed that everyone had had huge, unspoken expectations of her. Almost no one had bothered to explain what those expectations were. And Haleth, as hard as she had been trying, had failed to meet them at every turn.

‘Oh, Inglor, I just don’t belong here,’ she groaned.

‘Never say that,’ he said with unexpected ferocity.

‘But it’s true.  I lumber around like a trained bear.  I have no manners.  I take ships that don’t belong to me…’

‘Borrow,’ he corrected her.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked.

‘Borrow. You borrow things but only when you have need of them,’ he said.

Haleth searched his eyes for some trace of mirth but Inglor seemed completely earnest.

‘Very well, then, borrow,’ she said, a ghost of a smile on her face.  Her expression sank back into worry.  ‘It’s a pity there isn’t any extra boat to borrow.’

‘Haleth, what do you want to do?’

Haleth drew breath to answer and then stopped. 

‘Are you unsure? Do you wish to go to Lórien?’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Then what do you want?’

‘I want to go home.’ The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Inglor sighed.  He grasped her arm and guided her towards the bow of the ship.  Idril stood in the very prow, her keen eyes gazing across the water, her golden hair flowing in the breeze. She was the very image of valour and determination, intent upon rescuing her husband and her friend.  She would have no time for Haleth’s fears.

Inglor steered Haleth to the side of the ship instead. They stood together watching the white ship cut through the blue waters of the Enchanted Sea while Haleth tried to collect herself and failed miserably.

‘I’m sorry,’ she babbled.  ‘I don’t know what made me say that. I know I can’t go home. My home is gone.’

‘How long have you felt this way?’ he asked.

‘Since the day Ecthelion took me to the beach for a picnic,’ she replied. ‘That was the day when I saw…when I thought I saw…’

‘Númenor.  Or what remains of her,’ said Inglor softly.

It was true!  Her home, or at least a part of it, had survived the cataclysm. Haleth’s heart pounded in her chest. Her ears roared and she would have fallen to her knees if Inglor had not put a steadying arm around her waist.  

Inglor’s voice cut through to her awareness. ‘I am so sorry, Haleth.  I should have been watching for the signs.’

‘The signs of what? That I still have a home?’ she demanded, her voice thick with tears.

‘Your longing for home,’ he said gently. ‘I had been told that it might be problematic for you.’

‘Well, yes, being in a strange place and all,’ she said because she did not know what else to say.

‘I told myself that was the reason for your behavior; being in Valinor and not being aware of our customs,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Forgive me.  I should have known when you st….borrowed the ship and sailed east.’

‘Inglor, what are you talking about?’ Haleth asked, fed up with the oblique conversation.

Inglor hung his head and turned away from her.  ‘The limpë, the drink I gave you when I…’ he stopped.

‘When you changed my fate,’ said Haleth bluntly. 

Inglor winced, ‘When I took your Gift from you.’

‘It did more than make me like the Firstborn, didn’t it?’

‘I suspect it instilled your fierce longing for home.’

‘You suspect?’ she said distantly. ‘You don’t know?’

‘It is not something that is commonly done,’ he explained.

‘Then how did you know it would work at all?’ she asked.

‘I did not.  I fervently hoped it would.’

Haleth opened her mouth then closed it.  She was caught somewhere between laughter, tears and shoving Inglor into the depths of the ocean.  All of the homesickness, all of the ennui, all of it was the result of the potion he had given her while she was unaware. The same potion that had stolen her Gift and landed her in Aman with all of the impossibly lovely, incredibly accomplished immortals who she could never hope to equal. 

‘Haleth,’ Inglor sounded as though he was choosing his words with the greatest of care. ‘Aside from your home, which is beyond my ability to give you, what do you want?’

‘I want to make my own decisions,’ she snarled. Her fingers ached from clutching the ship’s rail.

They lapsed into silence. Haleth struggled to control herself while Inglor sadly watched the gulls swoop and turn. 

‘Haleth,’ he eventually managed. ‘There are times when your decisions are perhaps…’

‘Not as wise as they could be?’ Haleth finished for him.

Inglor’s face was an interesting combination of relief mixed with terror.  He nodded, mutely.

‘I know, Inglor.  They may not be wise but they are my decisions all the same.’

‘Ecthelion, Anairë and the others, they only wish to help cure you of pain,’ Inglor said.

Haleth turned on him, furious again.  He had caused her pain, after all.  If he had just left her at Mithlond, none of this would have happened.  She would have been alone, left to wander the empty leagues of Eriador and mourning Inglor’s departure until death finally claimed her.

Very well, perhaps her current situation was not so horrible after all.

‘What about you?’ she asked as she slipped her arm through his, a crooked smile on her face.

‘I have my wish,’ he said grasping her hand. ‘But it has come with great cost which I regret.’

It took Haleth a moment to realize he was talking about her.  She was his wish in all of her angry, lumbering, inept glory.  It was a humbling and utterly confusing experience.

‘Inglor, it is possible to have more than one wish in a life time,’ she said gently. ‘You have had one wish fulfilled.  What else do you wish for?’

Inglor did not answer for a very long time.  The wind picked up, whipping the spray into their faces. Idril stood like a proud figurehead on the prow of the ship.  Círdan’s sailors worked the sail this way and that to take full advantage of Manwë’s gift.

'I wish to undo the damage caused by my first wish,’ said Inglor.

Haleth guessed he was talking about her and all of her outbursts and bad decisions and homesickness.

‘But you do not insist that I go to Lórien?’ she ventured, hoping her guess was right.

‘You have made it abundantly clear you did not wish to go.  Besides,’ he added, smiling sadly.  ‘You are not the only person who refuses the peace and healing of Lórien.’

Haleth stared at him speculatively.  ‘Someone tried to send you there, too.’

He nodded, not meeting her eye.  ‘It was strongly suggested.’

‘And you wouldn’t go, either,’ she added.  She longed to ask the questions; what had happened to him and why did he not wish to go? But she sensed he would not answer; at least not yet.  One thing was certain though; Inglor understood her plight.

Wrapping her arm around Inglor’s waist, she rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Very well, then neither of us shall go.’ 

‘Because both of us prefer to have our pain,’ she thought. ‘I don’t think either of us is particularly intelligent.’

Inglor placed his arm around her shoulder and the two of them stood in silence while the gulls screamed and squabbled and the sailors moved around them.

‘Ecthelion is still following,’ Haleth finally said as the sun sank below the Pelori.

‘He cannot force you to do anything against your will.  I will not allow it,’ muttered Inglor.

‘I suppose he will rest easier when he sees that I am with you,’ she said as she watched Inglor’s profile.  The slightest hint of a frown creased his features.

‘You did save me, after all,’ she insisted.

‘I did,’ he said slowly. ‘But at great cost.’

‘Everything has its cost,’ said Haleth with a shrug. ‘You keep me out of trouble.’

Inglor made no reply.  The long twilight of Valinor came to its end and the first stars were igniting in the darkening sky when he finally said; ‘I do not believe anyone would agree with your observation.’

‘What observation?’ asked Haleth, who had lost track of their previous conversation over the intervening hours.

‘That I keep you from trouble.’

She was about to argue when he continued. ‘If you will please excuse me, I must speak with Lord Círdan.’  He strode to the stern of the ship, leaving Haleth to stare at his retreating back in confusion and disbelief.